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ghoulphile · 1 year ago

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sticky fingers | c.h./the ghoul

➥ pairing | cooper howard/the ghoul x f!reader ➥ word count | 4.5k ➥ warning(s) | 🔞 smut; mildly dubious consent, dirty talk, degradation kink, fingering, squirting, rough sex, size kink, standing doggystyle, overstimulation, teasing, choking, dacryphilia, cooper howard is his own warning (he nasty y'all), canon compliant - takes place around ep 7, a grab bag mix of the show and the games ➥ summary | “Lil girls should know it’s rude ta steal.” ➥ notes | i love my men like i love my beef jerky 🫠 i wrote this over 16 fevered hours after finishing the finale. hope you enjoy~ minor edits 4/22/24 | x posted to ao3 | masterlist | feedback is always appreciated ❤️ feel free to send in thots, questions, requests!

It begins, as most things in the Southwest Commonwealth do, with a fight for survival.

City life is tough to be sure, but here on the outskirts of pocket civilizations where there’s nothing but long stretches of desolate wasteland - arid, sunbaked earth and scorched shrubbery - for miles around?

Well, if the ferals, fiends, and super mutants don’t get you in the night, then the desert itself will. During the day the sun burns overhead so nuclear hot, heat glimmers on the horizon in dancing waves.

Unforgiving, relentless as blink-and-you-miss-it mirages are swallowed by ever shifting sands.

It’s easy to get lost.

Even easier to boil alive in your armor if you’re unprepared.

Far too many travelers from the Eastern Commonwealths have met their demise here, where shade is sparse, and water even moreso. The rain - if it does blow in over the mountains - brings rad sickness.

If you’re lucky enough to still be alive, the only reprieve from the heat is in the stooped bones of bombed buildings and ramshackle shacks... where you're just as likely to catch a knife in the back from a chem fried addict as you are relief.

Because here, in the Wastes, danger lurks in sand and shadow alike.

You don’t trek out into the flats half-cocked: a fact all locals know. And if you do decide to? Well, you learn one way or another.

No, only the truly ignorant - or the desperate - dare to tempt man and nature.

Consequently, as you dust off the crumbs from the last half of a Fancy Lads Snack Cake and suck a melted smear of icing from your thumb, you're of the latter half.

You tried holding off for as long as you could. But once the shakes started, you knew you couldn’t put off eating lest you pass out and wake up in a slaver camp.

Well, shit, you think as you rattle a dented canister of purified water. This fucking sucks.

Almost going cross-eyed, your tongue hovers under the rim as you watch the last lazy drop fall free. You catch it with a grimace, smacking your lips. The water tastes metal warm in your sour mouth, barely enough to wet your whistle - let alone your thirst.

You began rationing the last of your supplies days ago, and it’s been a battle against light-headedness ever since. Pretty soon you won’t have the strength to defend yourself, scavving be damned.

Come on. Think - gotta think. What can I scrap for caps?

Not only is Filly more than half a day away, Ma June isn’t one for charity cases. The fact she offered twenty extra caps last time for some burnt books and bent bobby pins was as close as you were ever going to get to a Wasteland miracle.

Sunken cheeks and pleading eyes can only get you so far; everyone’s gotta eat.

"Fuck..." The palms of your hands grind into your eye sockets until you see stars. "FUCK!"

There are two unspoken laws in this otherwise lawless land: steal or starve, live or die. A grim reminder that surrounds you in old bleached bones, empty bullet casings, and scraps of cloth fluttering in the breeze.

Someone always has to be top dog. If you’re lucky, they might be willing to share their spoils.

It’s as you’re considering what pieces of yourself you’re willing to barter that you see them. On the horizon, coming from the west, are two dark blobs.

Stark against the flat plains - a shining beacon of salvation - is a man in a ratty duster and cowboy hat. The saddlebag tossed over his shoulder bounces with his steps while a dog trots beside him, its sable coat rippling with muscle.

Pay dirt.

Making sure to keep low and distant, you stalk them. Watching, waiting for the opportune moment to strike.

When the sun dips low, the sky a swath of pale pink and gold, they make camp at a blown-out Drumlin Diner. Off in the distance, thunder rumbles and sickly clouds gather.

Dark and roiling, acid green; a Radstorm brewing.

Electricity cracks at your skin, stands your hair on end. You scrub your hands over your arms, huddling into yourself for warmth. Meanwhile, the stranger seems to luxuriate in the budding promise of rad rain.

He lounges under an awning, his back pressed against a defunct Nuka Cola fridge. He gazes in the direction of the oncoming weather while mindlessly running his fingers through the dog’s fur as it curls up against his legs.

Occasionally, its ears twitch, and its eyes crack open.

Whenever it glances in your direction, you hold your breath and squeeze your eyes shut but it never gives any other indication that it notices your presence.

A small mercy you’re thankful for.

While you’re a pretty good shot, your body is weak with hunger. Besides, you have quick hands and light feet. There’s no doubt you can stealth your way in and out before he realizes his pack is lighter than he left it.

You’ll only take what you need - not interested in causing any more trouble than is necessary. Some food, maybe something to drink if he can spare it, and something to pawn. Just enough supplies to get you sorted in Filly.

Anyway, he certainly isn’t hurting for it by the look of things.

Any guilt you felt was short-lived when he settled down after dropping his pack inside, walking out with an inhaler of Jet in one hand and a can of Cram in the other.

Watched, greedy, as he cracked it open and picked at the tin of meat with lazy fingers. Salivated as he sucked them clean in between deep pulls of chem.

Soon, you decide, licking your lips as he chews, swallows. Soon.

However when push comes to shove, the stranger proves far more keen than you give him credit for.

The world spins like a hit of Daytripper, a kaleidoscope of color as your skull bounces off the wall with a loud crack. Air rushes from your lungs as something huge - hot and heavy - slams into you from behind.

Pins you against the wall with ease as your ears ring.

Something rattles loose; your teeth too large and your tongue too thick. Warm metal floods your mouth as the side of your face throbs in time with the rabbit fast stutter of your heartbeat.

Pain sparks and your stomach rolls.

"Wha's?" you slur, thoughts dripping like wax. "Wh-at's..."

Meanwhile, a gloved hand lassos around your throat like a collar. Brute fingers squeeze the tender flesh of your jugular until you hear your pulse in your ears. Senses struggling - sluggish to adjust in the encroaching night - as tiny cavities eat at your vision, little pockets of darkness.

“Lil girls should know it’s rude ta steal," a gruff voice mocks. “Betcha thought you was real slick, huh? Tch. You ask me, you’re dumber than shit, Darlin'.”

Trying to regain your bearings, you shake your head only to groan. “I don’t - ‘m not -” It’s difficult to concentrate, a throbbing tempo taking up residence in your temples. The words come slow. “Wha’d you mean?”

He whistles, long and low-pitched, "D’ya have any idea who you're fucking with?"

“N-No…”

“How’s about I show you, then?”

Warm breath puffs over the shell of your ear, a tongue sliding out to trace along the lobe. You jolt, squirming in discomfort as he crowds closer.

“Tasty lil thing like you, wrapped up all nice and pretty just for me." He chuckles. "Why, it must be Christmas.”

What the hell is he talking about?

It’s hard to breathe with his heavy weight suffocating you; the scent of gunpowder and bitter smoke clogging your nostrils with every labored inhale. His lips - ragged - scrape over the nape of your neck.

The grip on your throat squeezes once, twice; leather sticks to your sweaty skin.

You squint your sore eyes, taking in the faint flickers of firelight that spill through the open doorway. The desert chill of night has settled in, creeping through the busted out windows to dig beneath your padded armor.

Thunder rumbles directly overhead as lightning follows in flashes of acid green. It’s only a matter of time before sheets of rain come pouring down; the air sticky with humidity, trembling with energy.

The Radstorm has finally arrived.

You’ll undoubtedly get sick if you leave the shelter of the diner - might even die from it if you can’t afford or find any RadAway. But as the stranger’s chest digs into your shoulders, and the dog curls up in the corner - uncaring of your plight as its nose tucks into the whip-thin tail - you think you’ll take your chances.

Tilting back to glance at him from over your shoulder through damp eyes, you say, “Look--”

Only his hand moves, viper quick, as it slides from the front of your neck to the nape. Strong fingers clamp down like a vice, like scuffing an unruly dog.

He grinds your face into the wall, rough metal shredding your cheek.

You cry out, a soft, pained little thing that echoes through the empty diner.

“Now why’d you gotta go an' make me do that?”

A phantom glimpse told you all you needed to know; broad jaw, thin lips, a hollow nasal ridge, creeping radiation burns and cracked skin. Ghoul.

��Let’s try this again, Sugar.”

His free hand - sans glove - creeps over the curve of your hip to splay along the swell of your belly, fingers tucking up under the hem of your shirt. You shiver at the stroke of roughened skin.

“Don’t take another peep or I might jus' have ta pluck out those pretty eyes of yours.”

Dread pools low in your gut, a leaden ball.

Everything in you screams: RUN, RUN, RUN.

Alarms blare but you freeze. Stare straight ahead at the featureless wall, eyes wide and unseeing. Through the foggy mire of your thoughts - half formed and shapeless - you have enough presence to understand the precarious nature of your position.

Heart hammering, you plead for mercy, “Please, I’m - I’m sorry.”

"Aw, ain't that real sweet?" He remains impassive, unmoved. "The little thief does got some manners after all."

Without warning, the sharp toe of his cowboy boot kicks apart your feet. In the ensuing empty space between your thighs, his leg slots into place. Spurs dig into the tender meat of your ankle, little kisses of pain, as his hips rut forward against your ass.

You choke on your spit, pulse jumping in your throat.

"H-Hey, that's..." You attempt to shove at any part of him you can reach to no avail. Built and broad with compact muscle, it's like trying to move a brick wall. "I said I was sorry, okay!"

He ignores you, burying his face into the space behind your ear. A deep inhale sounds next to your head, the expansion of his chest against your back so firm you're not sure you won't fuse together.

The whiskey rough groan he releases does wicked things, makes your mind wander to places it shouldn't. Full of grit and gravel as his cock twitches against your backside, a burning line of heat.

A shiver ricochets down your spine.

He grunts, says, "Mm, you smell good enough ta eat."

The cap of his knee nudges up against your clit with a sudden jolt, shocks of pleasure electrifying your body. Tears prick the corners of your eyes, and a sob threatens to scrape its way up from the depths of your throat.

You swallow, mouth desert dry. "Come on, let's just forget all about this, yeah?" you reason. "No harm done. I'll even give you whatever I've got left so - so..."

He makes a noise in the back of his throat, the vibration rattling through your chest. "So?" he prompts, plucking at the waistband of your trousers.

"So let me go?"

"Now why would I go an' do an asinine thing like that?" he replies. "If you think you can buy your freedom, think again, Sweetheart."

Rain pings off the metal roof, the smell of pungent ozone and rusting metal wafting in through busted windows and open doors.

“'Sides,” he pauses to turn your attention outside, “I’d hate ta have you yakin’ before the fun’s even started.”

There’s no way to misconstrue his meaning when he punctuates the statement with a teasing rut of his hips. Those rugged fingers tug open the clasp of your trousers, yank until the material goes slack and pools around your ankles.

“Hey, wait--!”

You jolt, hands scrambling for purchase as he slides his leg against your core. The friction of his pants through your thin cotton underwear makes you ache.

Ripping through your bottom lip, blood beading to the surface, you choke on a high-pitched whimper. "I..."

There's no way he can't feel your reaction.

How quickly you're getting wet as he drags you along the length of his thigh while yanking your hips back into the cradle of his pelvis. You meet him in a slow grind that boils your blood and steals the breath from your lungs.

It’s been - shit - far too long since you’ve felt anything other than hunger, thirst; the animal drive to keep pushing forward.

"You like this, don'tcha?"

You hear the dagger-sharp smile hidden in his words.

He croons, "What would your fellow smoothies think, huh? Here you are lettin’ a ghoul get you all hot n bothered - and you’re lovin’ it. Ain't you?"

You throb in response, heat stealing its way into your cheeks as you turn your head away in shame. His dark chuckle lets you know he felt the squeeze of your thighs, the rock and dip of your hips against his knee.

"I - I don't..." you stutter, struggling for a retort. “I’m not--”

A tremble works its way through your body, crushed as you are between the rad warm burn of his body and the wall. Completely at his mercy as you try to figure out where it all went wrong and what you can do to worm your way out of this one.

Terrified of what'll happen if you stay, terrified of what'll happen if you go; stuck in limbo as what was meant to be a simple grab-and-dash devolved into this confusing cluster of shame and lust.

You loathe the embers of desire kindling to life low in your belly.

"You really outta start bein' more honest, Sweetheart."

A large hand dips beneath the worn band of your underwear, and you wait with baited breath. Helpless as calloused fingertips brush over the swell of your mond.

Your inner thighs are uncomfortably sticky with slick, and your eyes burn in humiliation. Your throat trembles around all the words you want to say.

"Didn't anyone teach you lyin' was bad?" he asks rhetorically as his fingers slip down to play with the swollen bud of your clit, tapping lightly.

You keen, low and wounded.

Short nails dig into your palms as you flex your hands for want of something to grab onto.

“I am being honest,” you bite out through grit teeth. Sweat dapples your furrowed brow. “Just lemme go, please.”

"I find that hard ta believe," he replies. "Sorry to say, but you're shit at lyin'. Just look how hungry your lil cunt is for me."

It’s the only warning you get before those long digits plunge deep inside, two becoming three as they stretch you wide. Hollow you out; knuckles massaging your entrance as the tips prod along the sensitive front wall of your cunt.

You clamp down with a strangled moan. “Shit!”

This is a horrible idea - but it’s been forever and a day since you’ve felt anything other than your own touch.

Whether it be the bone-deep loneliness you’ve been shoving down for months or the sudden, inexplicable need for contact, you long for a reminder that you’re still alive.

That you’re not some wrath of the Wasteland filled with sand and blood, doing whatever it takes to survive in a place that would rather see you fail.

“I - I’m not sure.”

He snorts but offers no council or reassurances, using his free hand to yank at the back of your head in impatience. While it might’ve been a fairer fight if you weren’t in such bad shape, there’s no denying that he’s proven himself to be more adept.

Stronger, quicker.

This is going to happen either way.

And that turns you on - even though you feel like it shouldn’t.

If you give in, if he forces you to give in, it’s not really your fault then, is it? You can enjoy it because you have no choice.

Fuck it, you think, closing your eyes and tilting your head to the side in submission.

Like a doll with cut strings, all the fight drains from your body and you’re left sharing space. The ghoul is a furnace of heat behind you, barely any space to breathe he’s crowded so close.

His cock thickens where it digs into the soft fat of your ass, as large and intimidating as the man himself. “Now stay still for me.”

The or else goes unspoken.

Then he’s stepping away, a rush of cold air filling the empty space at your back.

You shiver, tempted to turn around. Maybe make a run for it. The only thing stopping you is the awareness that his threats aren’t so idle. In your experience, it’s far better to befriend the monster than to anger it.

So you comply, waiting an eternity as your senses strain to pick up on anything other than the murmuring hush of rain, the rumble of thunder, as the Radstorm continues to blow its way through.

Though just when you think he might’ve left, ready to chance moving, you hear the clink of a belt buckle clicking open. The scuff of boots across the linoleum before broad hands shove up under your shirt, scarred palms bare as they settle on your hips.

You tense before forcing yourself to relax.

“You ain’t as stupid as I thought,” he says. “Good girl.”

A test.

You breathe a sigh of relief.

“I can listen,” you mumble, keeping calm as his hands explore the plains of your stomach, pluck at the waistband of your panties. “Promise ‘m not gonna do anything else.”

Learned my lesson the first time. Got my skull cracked open for it.

“That’s what I like ta hear.”

Without warning, your panties are being ripped from you, scraps of fabric fluttering useless to the floor. You squawk in indignation but then a heavy hand settles between your shoulder blades.

He presses down, and you follow without complaint, finding yourself bent in half.

And then the fat head of his cock is right there, teasing at your entrance. He plays with your cunt, slipping the shaft between your wet folds. Dragging up the length of you to tap at your swollen clit.

Jerking in his hold, you whine and try to bear down with all your weight. “Please,” you squirm. “Please, c’mon…”

His grip remains firm, bruising as he exhales next to your ear, a pleased little grumble. “Thatta girl. Now tell me, who’s my pretty lil thief?”

Every hard ridge of his body bites into the softness of yours, your stiff nipples dragging against the rough material of your shirt. Zings of pleasure shoot through you; bursting in your bloodstream, fizzy like warm Nuka Cola.

“I-”

“Go on now, Sweetheart: say it.” Fingers dig into your hips so hard your bones ache. “Or I jus' might be tempted ta take a bite outta your pretty lil backside instead.”

He’s bluffing, you think, half delirious, … Right? He wouldn’t--

You swallow, throat clicking, and squirm against him.

Is that a chance you’re willing to take?

No, no it’s not.

“Y-Yours - I’m - I’m your little thief.”

The unexpected flare of satisfaction in his voice is almost your undoing. A hand pets down your flank, swatting the outside of your thigh playfully.

“Good girl.” He demands, “Say it again.”

Sharp hip bones kick forward against your ass as he lines himself up and starts to bully his way inside.

“I’m - YOURS!”

Your soft, gummy walls flutter, squeeze until giving in with a pop under the hard pressure of the fat head. His cock stretches you out, thick and girthy.

Ridges of scar tissue and patches of rough friction pockmark his shaft, massaging tender places as he fills you up, fucking you open.

He feeds you inch after inch… until he can’t.

“Wait!”

Accommodating his girth is a struggle, your cunt filled to the brim by the time he’s halfway inside. No amount of slick could make him fit, so he makes do with harsh little jerks of his hips. Forces himself deeper and deeper until he glides home nice and smooth, sheathing himself to the base with a sigh of satisfaction.

You clamp down hard with a hiccupy whine, walls furtively trying to push him out. “A-Ah!”

“Goddamn,” he huffs, hands kneading your ass, “You’re a tight fit.”

Tears prick your lash line, your hips shifting as you try to stop him from moving. Begging for a moment of reprieve. You’ve never taken something so big and thick, so textured before.

Coupled with the minimal foreplay, it feels like he’s punched his way through your body. Hollowed you out to make a home for himself.

Pussy aching, a low burning tightness creeps over your lower belly as tender flesh pulses uncomfortably around the unforgiving heft of his cock seated deep inside. You swear you feel him poking your belly button.

“Please,” you pant, heat settling into your cheeks. “J-Just wait a sec-ond! I can’t - oh shit.”

“Aw, look at you.” Fingers reach around to brush over your cheeks, gather the tears that’ve slipped free. “Didn’t mean ta make you cry,” he lies.

The sound of him sucking his fingers clean reaches your ears. Your stomach swoops, and your clit throbs. Dazed as you wonder what his mouth would feel like on your pussy.

"Hah - too much, you're - fuck - you're too big."

He snickers. “Can’t be helped, I guess.” Body rippling in a shrug, his hands re-settling on your hips. “But that’s all right - I like it better when they cry.”

Before you can retort, he pulls his hips back.

Your toes curl in your boots, feet squeaking across the linoleum floor as your sweaty forehead grinds into the cool metal of the wall. The texture of his shaft burns as it slides through your swollen folds, dragging against sensitive spots you didn’t even know existed.

You can’t tell if it’s the best you’ve ever felt or the worst, but you nearly sob all the same, nerves alight with liquid fire. Want him as deep inside as he can go; a frenzy of desperation that needs him to stuff you so full you choke.

“See for all your whining, you’re takin’ me so well. What did I say about bein' honest?”

You sniffle, blurry eyes creaking open to stare out the window.

Your body throbs in time with your pulse, your pussy so stretched out you can’t clench down when he thrusts in deep. The fat mushroom head teases your cervix, a faint whisper, before he’s drawing back again.

“T-Too fast,” you stutter, head rolling back to rest on his shoulder. Your thighs tremble, knees going soft. “Slow down, slow down.”

“Sh, you can take it. I know you can.”

With a grunt, he surges forward. Wasting no time in starting up a brutal pace that rattles your bones. He drives you hard into the side of the diner; tits crushed and face smashed, a disgusting mixture of tears and drool wetting your cheek.

“Just like that, Sweetheart.”

You do little more than hold on, all thoughts driven from your mind as he fucks you swollen and bruised. Cunt a sticky mess as your slick eases the way, clinging to your inner thighs and dripping down his heavy balls.

Every thrust punches little sounds from you, and he grunts. “Fuck!”

Your hands cling to the sides of his hips, focusing on the shift of muscle beneath heavy fabric. “I can’t,” you slur, eyes cloudy as you glance up into his, gazes meeting for the first time. “Please, I - ah!”

His thrusts turn punishing, even more so than they already were, hips meet your ass with enough force to leave bruises. “What did I say about sneakin' a peek?”

While the words sound threatening, his voice is heated and breathy. For all his talk, he doesn’t look away. In fact, his hips slow into languid rolls, grinding close. When your eyes slide from his, he reaches down to pinch your clit between his fingers.

“Ah, ah, ah,” he chides. “You keep those eyes on me.”

Pretty, you think, dazed.

Glinting in the slants of firelight like wet sand or a Nuka Cola bottle in the sun; bourbon warm as they peer at you from beneath a heavy brow bone.

“That’s it, there’s my good girl."

Eyes fluttering when he flexes his hips in reward, the tip massaging along your g-spot, your mouth drops open on a whine.

“O-Oh! Right there, I - fuck, please don’t stop. ‘m so close.” F-Feels s'good.

His bare hand reaches up to curl around your jaw, gnarled fingers pushing their way past the open circle of your swollen lips. They compress your tongue as they gather saliva, stroking along your tastebuds.

Gritty, rough; he tastes of dirt, blood, and gunpowder.

You sneak a kiss to his scarred knuckle when he pulls free.

“Shit, I’ll be damned. You’re just a nasty lil freak, ain't you?”

You moan in response, stretching up on your tip-toes and arching your hips to change the angle. Your palms rest beside your head, docile.

A crazed grin cracks the corners of his lips, his teeth bared like an animal. “I like that,” he husks. “Now be a peach…”

Then those soaked digits are finding their way between your thighs, ghosting over your skin to smear spit onto your abused clit. The tender bud throbs beneath his fingertips, swollen and begging for attention.

He hitches his hips forward to feel you jerk, pulsing beneath his touch as he resumes a fast, jolting pace that has you smacking into the wall.

“And cum for me.”

A deep rumble escapes his throat, the sloppy, wet sounds of him fucking you ringing loud in your ears. Your hips roll, unsure if you want to press forward into the swirl of his fingers or back into the rut of his cock.

Tears stream down your cheeks, your chest heaving with weak sobs.

“Please,” you whine, his shaft pinching your walls uncomfortably. You feel swollen, rubbed raw. “A-Almost there.”

A nip to the ear is all it takes.

“Hhaah, I’m--!”

The liquid heat that’s been pooling low in your belly - building and building - finally bursts in a gush of slick that soaks his hand. Darkens the crotch of his pants as it drips down your thighs to splash against the tile.

You sob, a full body tremor zipping through you like bottled lightening.

In the aftermath, your cunt twitches in time with your heartbeat. Hands numb and head full of cotton as cramps bloom between your hips. Sharp little stabs shoot up behind your navel.

“Shit, I’ve got myself a gusher,” he laughs, a nasty little smirk tugging at his lips. “Look at the mess you made. Now if you ask real sweet-like, maybe I’ll let you clean it up with your tongue.”

You sag, too boneless to be ashamed as electric aftershocks tingle along your nerves. All the while, his pace never falters, quickly fucking you into overstimulation.

Your clit twitches pathetically when the fat head of his cock drags along your g-spot. "No more," you mumble weakly, letting him maneuver your body how he likes. "Please."

“Heh, let’s see if you can do that again.”

You whimper, “Oh, oh, please n-no. I - I can’t. You’ll break me.”

“That’s real cute,” his lips, harsh and rasping, drag over the shell of your ear, “but I wasn’t askin’.”

The grip on your hips tightens to the point of pain, digging in and marking you up.

“Now, why don’ we have some real fun, Darlin'?”

#cooper howard x reader #the ghoul x reader #fallout smut #the ghoul x you #cooper howard x you #the ghoul #cooper howard #fallout #fallout fanfic

4K notes · View notes

madamecaos · 3 months ago

Text

Crush (ing)

Summary: Where Ghost goes a little too rough on you in training then makes up for it.

5k+ ish words │ Ghost (Simon Riley) x Y/N

A/N: Angst with a smutty happy ending. Times are weird now, so I'm back to writing again. You know the drill, no proofread found here

-----

Part 1

It was merely a crush, you realized. It must be. Otherwise, you would have to not have sex again with Simon.

Because there was no way in hell a man like that would let himself be roped in into a relationship, and a relationship with you at that. You were sure he hated you, going by his nonchalant treatment when he wasn’t in your bed.

There, another example. You haven’t even been to his room, which going by his arrogant attitude must be annoyingly spotless.

You hated him, or at least you wished that saying it would make it better for your sanity. Because this was Simon.

The first time you slept together happened in France, and it was not gentle. Well, you didn’t really expect any special treatment as a lover, but it wasn’t exactly a tender moment, more of a “blowing some steam” sort of thing. A ‘high-school make out session’ sort of a thing, or so you repeated in your head whenever his name came up in conversation.

It’s not to say that it wasn’t enjoyable, but only a representation of the tone of your weird situationship. And you were fully sure that this was Johnny’s fault somehow.

“But he likes you, lass. That’s why he’s a pain.” He said, as if there was no doubt about it.

You scoffed at that. Unfortunately, he wasn’t the only one who thought so.

Your aching shoulder, after sparring got out hand, made you believe otherwise.

Now, Johnny said something about hanging out for drinks with some locals. The mission in Serbia took a pause on the wait for new intel, so as consequence your unit had a free week out of uniform. This meant more time with your team outside of work, and that meant that you and Ghost were at each other’s throats. Mostly you since his sunken eyes behind the sockets of his skullmask barely moved when you made jabs at him.

Then he stared and stared, a blank look threatening you into a near sycosis. Why couldn’t he just be normal and answer without underestimating you?

And one night there was a local event, promising alcohol and a good time. It was dark already, but the people there were lively, enjoying food and from far away, you could hear music and dancing. You couldn’t wait to try and merge with the crowd, maybe flirt a little with a cute local. And you thought you looked lovely, really good going by the way some of the soldiers ogled you. It must be due to you being one of the only females in the base, but it wasn’t harming your ego.

Johnny whistled when you met at the entrance, drawing attention to you in civilian clothes. You think they hadn’t seen you off your gear yet, and it must be shocking to see you in a normal long maxi skirt mapping the curves of your hips, a dark top and a fashionable coat, just as dark of course. You looked like a killer with your dark makeup and hair down for the first time in a while, sparkling earrings catching in moonlight.

“Little lady, are ya lost?” He whistled again, making you hurry your pace to shut him up. There was a diminutive pause with hesitation at seeing Ghost in the driver seat after Johnny moved away from the window.

He looked at you, eyes trailing leisurely from your toes to your eyes. You wiggled your white-painted toes in your wedges at the pinning stare. It was a pain smuggling nail polish in missions, but his ongoing stare made it worth it. They might not be up to code, but you didn’t really care. He blinked slowly as his fingers lightly rapped against the steering wheel in what you thought to be annoyance.

“Are ya coming?” The brute asked, still bitter by your word ping-pong match in Price’s office. You certainly had won because you believed yourself capable of acting as a secret spy inside a mob dead set on selling plutonium as a business. Yeah, they were a little out of their heads, but really talented at hiding, so here you were, stuck in Serbia. Ghost clearly thought you weren’t good enough of a liar to gather intelligence, or so he implied, but you knew it was because he didn’t believe you weren’t good enough overall.

Your past scuffles where Ghost was the opponent, pinning you down on the mat, were proof enough. This was the military, you weren’t allowed to make it personal, but when he bested you and made sure to show you your faults with overtraining you… His strict treatment with you hadn’t gone unnoticed by others and, well, let’s say that you weren’t feeling rational about it.

To your annoyance he got out of the car, and for a second you expected him to fight you again, maybe prevent you from getting into the backseat with brute force. Would he say that you weren’t allowed to drink or have fun? Would your mistakes make him order you back to the gym instead of a night of fun?

None of the scenarios circulating in your head happened. Instead, he leaned sideways and opened the door. You stood still as he waited at your gaping. Then, obviating your embarrassment, you closed your mouth and got in at the rise of an eyebrow behind his mask. None of you mentioned anything at his action, one that you found odd. Maybe he did it as a power move? Or maybe he did it only for the shock factor to keep you on your toes?

Sitting at the back, immersing yourself in your distrust, you kept making eye contact with Ghost through the rearview mirror. Not on purpose, but he did nothing to turn his eyes away, only to drive, and sometimes you swore he couldn’t keep his eyes off you.

But you kept fighting with facts versus what you wanted. Did you want him to seek you, look at you and only you? Your last argument kept circulating in your thoughts. Whenever he looked at you, pain followed.

So, he steered the rented car in silence, Johnny making conversation with himself. Ghost found parking nearby inside the city, near the pubs, and yet the car was left hidden in another block. Yeah right… it was the car that would draw attention, not the hulk-of-a-man wearing a balaclava in public.

And it was sort of inevitable the way your gaze would keep drawing back to the blonde near-white lashes free of dark paint or the sharpness of his jawline as he rumbled out another one of his jokes to Johnny. The lack of skull mask allowed you to obsess, no, notice the details. Yes, notice.

And he still had a balaclava. You felt like you were going insane in your ruminating and in your shame for sleeping with someone that didn’t find you worthy enough to show their face.

The guys flocked around you as you headed into the first club with music you could understand.

After a while, you realized you shouldn’t have dared to defy a Scotsman in a drinking game. Johnny was fully sober and you were giggly at your third drink. You were drawn to the dance floor and the bar behind it, or at least a moment for yourself. A fourth drink didn’t sound so bad, you mused as you planned how to get out of the booth. You were fidgeting in the middle, Johnny on one side, Ghost on the other. Gaz was supposedly on his way, something about needing more time to get dressed. As if. He probably knew this night would be boring and would never arrive.

“Excuse me, scoot” you said, nodding at Johnny to move so you could get out. He huffed and practically ignored you with a teasing grin as he kept ‘scoping the perimeter’ or whatever that meant. “Johnny, let me out. I have to pee.”

“So? If you leave, who’ll be my wingwoman?”

“Certainly not me. Ghost?”

“Not moving.”

You looked at the two, noticing that Johnny was leaning forward on the table, and Ghost wasn’t. Hoping that the shock factor would stave away the complaints, you swung your leg over Ghost’s hips, landing on your knee at his side. The skirt rode up to your knees as you stared him down, stumbling at your sloshed state. You expected to climb away quickly, but before you could escape into the booming music, solid hands tightened themselves over your hips. You swayed as you lost your momentum, hitting your lower back on the edge of the table, empty glasses clinking.

You hissed at the pain, the bruises on your back tender from yesterday’s training stung as your hands grasped his shoulders for stability. One of his palms quickly spread on your lower back, preventing more accidents. Your lips clamped at the pain. His head was almost at your height, despite you being over him, a few inches up on your knees, spread over his thighs.

Dark eyes stared at you through his mask, but you could clearly make out a risen eyebrow in amusement. That little shit always found a way to get a rise out of you.

“Easy, doll. You should’ve just asked,” he rumbled lowly, barely heard through the music.

“Woah,” Soap added to your embarrassment.

“None of you would move, now let me off,” you didn’t wait for his permission and swung your other leg away, paving your way to freedom away from those steady hands. There was no way you could feel his warmth through all your layers beneath the skirt, but the shape of his fingertips still ghosted over your hips. Fighting the urge to look back, you walked away with flaming cheeks, and hurriedly headed directly to the bar. Well, more like swayed to the bar as embarrassment sunk in slowly in your drunken state.

It was almost as if he was completely unbothered by your presence whilst the mere thought of that skull mask made your logic haywire, aggression being an immediate outlet. You certainly needed that drink, or anything as a distraction, but the bar was unreachable. The hoard of people flaying their limbs to the deep base reverberating through your form didn’t allow you a direct way, so you tried to push yourself through the sides of the crowd. Even being half-way there, you saw that getting that drink would be a pain, the barstools fully occupied, a line of people trying to get the overworked bartender’s attention.

You sighed, knowing that you would have to wait for that reprieve for more than an hour, going by how slow the line was moving. After someone bumped into your sore shoulder, an answer to your question came in the form of the red sign of Exit behind you. Maybe you wouldn’t get a drink, but fresh air might help stave away the recurring memory of the shape of Ghost’s palms on you. The fact that you kept thinking about it made you want to punch something… Fresh air it is. Without looking back, you went outside into a back alley, the cold air helping you sober up enough to not stumble through the horde of smokers blocking the entrance.

What was this bar selling that was so full? You cursed lowly, knowing that your much needed moment of peace would have to wait some more. The thought of calling for a Taxi back to base crossed your mind, your annoyance slowly rising. Unfortunately, you left your purse behind with the other two, your bra carrying the only cash you had in the currency, enough for that one drink you kept dreaming about.

With arms crossed around you, you set your pride aside and found a dark corner to sit in, the lights and the music far away. A little misplaced wooden crate allowed you to take the weight off your feet, far enough to hide you from the locals chatting away over cigarettes. You weren’t as vigilant as your usual self, knowing that with your combat training, you were the most dangerous person amongst them.

With that in mind and at the relief of momentary silence, you closed your eyes, fingertips massaging your temples. Maybe it had been a blessing in disguise that you couldn’t get that drink. You had been bunking with another soldier in the common barracks, the cafeteria was always busy, your itinerary was filled with missions, training, discussing intel, fighting with Ghost and being subjected to horrible jokes and prompts from your peers. This had been the only moment you’ve been alone, you realized.

Peace was broken as you opened your eyes, military boots standing inches away from you. You scolded yourself for recognizing them immediately, not an ounce of you distinguishing him as enemy. Was it normal to even find annoying how silent he was when walking? You should’ve seen him coming.

“Didn’t take you for a smoker,” Ghost said, already knowing that you weren’t. You knew that to your core. He was too observant and too vigilant for his own good, or for your sanity.

“I’m not. Where’s Johnny?” You looked up, craning your neck upwards. The mass of him blended with the darkness of the sky behind him. You could only make out his eyes out of the balaclava.

“Inside,” He looked down on you and you debated if your pride was enough to make you stand up. Even if it was impossible, you wanted to be enough to stand at his height, for him to recognize you at something as your equal. He better walk away before you start spewing truths that would only confess your drunken self.

“And what are you doing here?”

“Checking up on you.”

You held in the scoff, rolling your eyes with closed lids. You waved him away, going back to massaging your temples. “You can tell Johnny I’m fine. Just getting some fresh air.”

He looked sideways momentarily, eyeing the smokers nearby, then returned to pin you down with the heaviness of his gaze.

“You’re hiding,” he said with no question in his statement, head tilting sideways with curiosity.

“No-“

“Away from me,” he rumbled deeply, almost to himself. “It seems we are at an impasse.”

“I’m not doing this right now. Whatever you want to talk about, will be at base with a superior present,” you glared upwards as he eyed the hands now in tight fists on your lap. He knew you were clearly referring to Price, who abided to the bureaucratic process despite his favoritism for his favorite killer. That killer wasn’t you obviously.

You were considered too sentimental, as if that was another flaw.

After a beat, he opened his mouth solely to aggravate you, you were sure. “Said superior suggested we resolve our issues outside of work.”

The comment felt like a mockery. “And this is out of work, right? Get a few drinks in the girl, lower her defenses… and just talk.”

He hummed, a sound you felt in the hollow of your chest. It was almost as if you couldn’t help but react to his every word as an insult. The resentment you held for him always made you wonder that maybe, if you hadn’t felt like proving something to him, you would’ve stayed as a mediocre soldier. That his tough lessons and obvious disdain were meant due to something greater. You wanted to be grateful, to see the good outcome of the estranged liaison you have with one of your superiors, but it was draining enough to know that all effort would go to waste.

“I’ll let them know you were not reciprocating, up to resolve our issues,” he answered with finality, knowing that his flat tone would make you take the bait. He didn’t even blink at your scoff, your eyebrows furrowing at your irritation, him knowing too easily how to get a reaction out of you.

“Issues?” You stood up shakily, leaning your weight on the wall behind you. “Why don’t you tell me what our issues are, Lieutenant?”

In a moment of bravery, you stood on the crate. Even with the added height, the top of your head didn’t even reach his clavicle.

“You’re angry.” He crossed his arms uncharacteristically, biceps bulging at the tension. His eyes roved up and down, as if searching for a clue as to what had you so mad. And in something similar to a question, he added, “At me.”

Furious, but you didn’t correct him. You crossed your arms to imitate his pose, incredulous at the obvious statement. This time you used his tactic and stayed silent as an answer, opting for him to fill in the conversation.

“Tell me why,” he demanded gruffly.

“Don’t tell me what to do!” He couldn’t just interrupt your me-time and start demanding answers out of you, you convinced yourself. You knew you were being difficult, but at this moment, this was merely deflecting. There was no way you would confess your insecurities upon his demands, as if the outcome were to be an improvement.

It was his turn to tilt his eyes up to the sky, seeking answers as he sighed in exasperation. In a second after contemplating, he let his guard down so plainly, you stood shocked and deadly still at his stance. What was this? His shoulders relaxed, arms resting down by his side, eyes beseeching to answer. A clear posture open to you. “I can’t fix something if I don’t know what’s wrong, sweetheart.”

The endearment and the sincerity in his eyes caught you off guard. You blinked, eyes wide open, ignoring the surprise of the coiling heat stirring near your thighs.

Then he went on to call your call sign, spurring you to blurt out the first thing that came to mind.

“You’re mean to me,” You lowered your arms to your sides like him.

You felt like a child, whining, and impossibly allocating a responsibility that didn’t belong to him.

He lowered his chin in disbelief. “You’re… mad at me because I’m mean.”

His complete disregard made you do the exact thing you wanted to avoid. Spill.

“Just mean? No,” Your fury got the best of you, “You know exactly what I’m talking about!”

His eyes widened for the first time, your outburst uncharacteristic, even for your short temper.

“If this is about that night-“

“You don’t treat me like the others. Even before that night.” You interrupted him, emphasizing what he implied, but felt hysterical at his clear misunderstanding. “You punish me for things that are not my fault. After we spar, I hide bruises because my superior can’t get over himself, but because its my job, I have to pretend its normal, like its professional. And then I’m the weak one? When others don’t have to take your beatings because…because… I don’t know why!”

“Sparring can be violent,” he justified, but to you, he didn’t sound so sure of himself.

“Violent?” You said, nearly shouting. “Violent?!” Ignoring the stiffness of your shoulders and the cold of the Serbian night, you shook of your coat. It was the first time he’d seen more of your skin, your uniform tended to provide full coverage. Even that night was fast and rough, but not unclothed.

He said nothing, his eyes wide at the purple imprints of his fists beneath the thin straps. You knew he could see, even in the dimmed light, how the bruises trailed down your shoulders. He must’ve known they would paint your arms as well, but you hadn’t shed your coat completely. You dared to believe he looked at you in horror, but your feelings bled over the dark alleyway against your better judgment.

“You set impossible expectations in our missions, in drills, and then you act like I’m some sort of failure when I can’t… I’m good at what I do. I do what I’m supposed to do, which is follow orders, swallow my pride, be a good soldier. And then you looked for me to get in my bed, and then nothing from you. So, I did what was expected, I stayed quiet. Isn’t that what you wanted?”

He stared and stared, reclamations going over his head as his eyes trailed the rest of your body with furrowed eyebrows. Alarmed. It was the most expressive you’ve seen him. No balaclava could hide the tension that held him upright.

“And then you ask Price to keep me off the next mission, after I keep proving that I’m capable. What else do you want from me?”

For the first time in a long time, he had no sass, no jokes, no answer for what he’d done.

“Y/N… I-“ He choked.

“I’m asking Price to change units. This will be my las mission with 141,” This time, he looked like he wanted to say something, but you were done with his excuses. “I’m done with your disrespect and your justified violence.”

You threw the word back at his face, Ghost tense and quiet.

“Y/N?” Someone asked from the exit. As your head snapped towards the voice, you hastily put your coat on, covering your shoulders immediately.

Johnny clutched your purse, eyes roving over your face and red rimmed eyes. The hesitance to look at your body let you know he had seen enough. Blue eyes kept jumping from Ghost to you, back and forth connecting the dots. “Is everything alright?”

“Yeah, just tired. Heading back to base,” You stepped down the crate, Ghost taking a sudden step back, as if you’d burned him. He officially wanted nothing to do with you.

“I will take you,” Johnny offered, gently and uncharacteristic, raising an arm to put over your shoulders in comfort, but let it fall as if he thought it over. In a second, he turned with an expectant palm towards Ghost. “Keys.”

He didn’t ask, he demanded. And Ghost, the good soldier he was, followed orders.

“The Lieutenant will take a cab.”

The Lieutenant didn’t argue.

The ride was tense, Johnny flickering glances at your silent state. As you stared blankly at the windshield, he hid his anger under his worry.

“Do you… should you talk to someone?” Johnny asked tentatively, indicating that maybe someone of a higher ranking should get involved.

“No,” you answered, finality in your tone.

You opened the door hastily when you arrived, avoiding any opportunity for him to ask more questions.

You had done enough talking for the night.

Thankfully, the common barracks were empty. But as you sat on the lower bunk bed, you felt a note crumble beneath your weight.

You stared at nothing in the dark, exhausted, taking deep breaths for a few minutes before you had to read, dreading another mission or another memo at your impertinence.

After gaining courage, the light post by the window allowed you to read that the note was a relocation to another bed.

The private room was yours, just like the private bathroom and the queen-sized bed. It was a slight gratification after everything that transpired a few hours ago.

And it was in another hall from your unit, further away from Ghost’s own private bedroom.

You didn’t want to think about him anymore this night, you thought as the nearly boiling water cascaded down your back.

As you scrubbed yourself clean, you reminded yourself that you needed to thank Johnny, he must’ve had to pull some impossible strings to find you a private bedroom amongst the fully occupied base.

In secret, inside of your new bedroom, you finally allowed yourself to cry.

Part 2

#cod x reader #ghost x y/n #ghost x reader #ghost x you #simon ghost riley #ghost cod #cod fanfic

751 notes · View notes

bitterrfruit · 2 months ago

Text

wild cherries [3]

[masterlist]

Price x f!Reader - cw: dubcon, spanking, light sadomasochism, brat taming 18+ mdni - 10k words

And I guess the sound of the outward bound Made me a slave to my wanderin' ways.

The sky was powder grey the following morning, sun concealed by a sheer veil of dry white cloud.

You had a fitful sleep.

Wracked with feverish dreams of sun and skin, of plum bruises and cherry juice. You woke up many times throughout the night with cold sweat damp on the back of your neck, cunt shivering and slippery as you dreamed of the cowboy’s tormenting hand, of his thumb intruding into your slit. Of your wet knickers being held in a tight and burly fist, being shoved covertly into a worn pocket.

It was near impossible for you to get comfortable in your bed – you were unable to lie on your back, for any pressure on your marred buttocks stung hot like a fresh brand.

Before the sun had risen you had been briefly awoken by the raucous sounds of the ranch whirring to life; disturbed by the yelling of your elder brother and his ranchmen from your second-storey window, by the humming engines of trucks and tractors rolling off to toil. The sounds, at least, brought you some form of nostalgic comfort, and it didn’t take you long to drift back to sleep.

When you finally bothered to kick off your sheet and slip out of bed, it was after nine. You slid your feet into your sandal slippers and wandered down the moaning staircase in your linen nightdress, rubbing fists into your puffy sockets and making your sleep-blurred vision all sparkly. You heard your sister’s voice in the kitchen before you spotted her.

“Slow morning?” She murmured, soft enough in tone that perhaps she didn’t intend for you to hear it.

Evelyn was perched on a stool at the kitchen counter, frowning at her open laptop and tapping away contemptuously at the keys. You thought to ask her what she was working on, but knew the half-hearted response you’d get – a distracted oh, it’s nothing, while her eyes remain pinned to the screen.

“Yep,” you croaked, scuffing over to the pantry and hanging off the open door. Perused the shelves for a box of cereal that didn’t have the word bran on it.

“Eat quickly, will you?” She said, far more pointedly, and when you glanced over your shoulder she was looking right at you. Had that quirk in her lip that betrayed an uneasy vexation. “Miles is taking us over at quarter-to.”

You frowned as you tugged a box of Honey Nut Cheerios from the back of the pantry, one with the cardboard flap ajar, and which you swear was the same box that had been there the last time you came to visit.

“Taking us where?” You asked mindlessly, shuffling to the fridge to grab the milk.

You heard a scoff from your sister as you poured the dry wheat cereal into an empty bowl. “To the neighbours’.”

“What?” You spat, cocking your head around to glare at her. “Why?”

The adrenaline that rinsed you was sudden and sharp, at the thought of seeing the man again so soon after his incursion. Having to sit still, to pretend all is normal, to feign sweetness and ignorance as you stand in the presence of both he and your siblings in one room. Suddenly you didn’t want your cereal anymore.

“We’ve got things to discuss with him,” she said grouchily. “And you have an apology to give.”

“Apology for what?” You snapped, resorting to petulance having been scolded.

Evelyn only released an exasperated groan as she shut her laptop lid. “You know what,” she chided. “Second day here and you’ve already pissed him off.”

“He wasn’t-” You started, biting your tongue just as swiftly as you had begun to blurt out that he was just as at fault as you. “He wasn’t pissed off.”

“Miles told me he dragged you home by your ear, Bee,” she grumbled. “I don’t even want to know what you coulda done to get him that burned up.”

“I didn’t even do anything,” you mumbled testily, tipping a splash of milk into your cereal.

“Whatever. Just – be polite, and–” She sighed as she paused, “just don’t get into any more trouble, will you? We want him on our good side.”

You snorted as you scooped a spoonful of your cereal and shoved it into your open mouth. “What are you going to discuss with him, then? Why do I even need to be there?”

“It’s – ugh. It’s a complicated situation, Bee,” she failed to explain, “but we need to be a united front. We’re a family, it’s a family business. A family ranch. We all need to be in it together.”

You pursed your lips, fought the desire to furrow your brows in contempt. “Still don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Look, Miles can explain it better to you later. Just finish your breakfast and wear something – something presentable for once.”

The Cheerios were stale and tasted like cardboard and dried syrup. You only shot your sister a foul look and huffed derisively, taking your cereal upstairs with you.

Something presentable. Your sister had a way of insulting you without even needing to utter the words. That was her way of telling you that you had been dressing like a slut. Short sundresses were simply so much more practical for your escapades – easier to ride in, to walk in, let you feel the breeze on your skin. Ensured you wouldn’t bake alive under the summer sun.

So you simply chose a slightly longer dress than usual. Dusty red plaid with a hem that brushed your calves, a wide neckline and little cap sleeves. Probably a hand-me-down from the seventies, one of the perks of so many generations of women living in the same farmhouse. It smelled like dust and patchouli.

You scrunched your wild hair up into an uncombed ponytail, barely held in place by a floppy hair tie, and smeared some strawberry chapstick over your lips as you meandered your way down the stairs.

Immediately crossed paths with Miles as he trudged down the hallway, black rancher hat still atop his head and a leather briefcase tucked under his arm. His tan button down was tucked into his jeans, a truly anomalous sight.

“So why are we going to the neighbours’?” You asked pertly, as you immediately followed behind him towards the kitchen.

He sighed gruffly, as you completely expected. It was always such a nuisance for them to explain things to you, to dumb it all down enough that you’d understand it. That, or, he was simply in a sour mood. Either just as likely.

“We’re only going over for a conversation,” he deadpanned, dumping the briefcase on the island counter before going to the sink to get himself a glass of water. Evelyn was gone – busy making herself presentable, you assumed. As if she weren’t in a perpetual state of presentableness.

You groaned. Their persistent vagueness was excruciating. “About what.”

“It’s just – it’s all business stuff, Bee,” he said, exhaling sharply after downing the whole glass. Must have been hot out there. “Negotiations and junk – it’d bore you to death.”

“Then why do I need to come?” You grumbled, crossing your arms as you leaned against the jamb of the open door.

He pinched the bridge of his nose, already exasperated with you. You seemed to have that effect on people. “Look, if you really don’t want to come then don't. I’m not gonna drag you there.”

“Eve said we have to be a united front,” you disputed. Still wanted an explanation. “What does that even mean?”

He smiled a little at that, moustache stretching with the grin.

“Good at likening things to war, that woman,” he snorted. “She just means it’d be less – less formal if we show up, all of us. Ol’ John’s probably sick of both our faces by now.”

“Probably sick of mine, now, too,” you said coyly, mindlessly tracing the lines of the hardwood with the tip of your big toe.

He laughed at you, full and from his belly, and the room lightened up with it. “Likely,” he chortled, “Especially if you keep sniffin’ round after ‘im.”

“Wasn’t sniffing. Only looking,” you murmured, through a bashful grin. “You’re not mad at me after yesterday?”

“No, hun,” he said, rubbing his forehead, concern still eking through the creases in his brow. “Only surprised you got yourself caught so quickly.”

You snickered. “Not mad at him for grabbing me, neither?”

He shrugged. “No. That served you right.”

“M’kay, fine,” you conceded demurely. “I’ll come, then.”

There was another truck parked beside Mr Price’s blue Chevy as Miles pulled up his long driveway, a black pickup coated in a layer of dust.

Evelyn and Miles had been murmuring to each other for the duration of the short drive, bickering about some deal or other, about what to say and what not to say. In truth, you paid little attention, despite your earlier curiosity. Miles was right, it bored you to death, even attempting to listen in on whatever business endeavour the contentious visit was going to cover. You quietly stuck your head out of the window of the back seat, eyeing the looming homestead as you drove around the bend, and Miles pulled to a stop by the front porch.

The air smelled wet and heavy when you hopped out and onto the gravel drive. The blanket of rolling clouds had swelled, distended with imminent rain sagging in its blue-grey bulges. You could feel it sticky and warm on your skin, it made your hairs prickle up.

Your siblings were still mumbling between each other as they slammed shut their doors, wandering towards the porch steps, briefcases and papers in hand. All business, so they said. How tedious.

While their backs were to you, you slinked towards Mr Price’s truck.

You wondered if he spotted the cotton sin you left in the cab. You wondered why you had even thought to do such a thing at all. What was wrong with you? Were you really made so delusional by his degenerate punishment that you would so debase yourself?

Humiliation simmered sour in your belly, as you heard your siblings knock on the great front door. You imagined John revealing your foul little secret, making some sly comment about it as you greeted him. Might he chastise you for your outrageously licentious behaviour? Shame you for your petulant whorishness?

Perhaps he hadn’t seen your panties at all, inconspicuous as they were.

With a swallow you stood on the tips of your toes, fingertips barely grazing the dusty metal of the truck, you peeked through the passenger window. Eyes scoured the leather seat, between the seatbelts, below the dashboard.

They were gone.

You wrenched your eyes shut, wetting them so you could check again, and again – eagerly seeking a glint of white fabric anywhere in the truck’s cabin. No sign.

With that, you knew that not only had he noticed them – he must have touched them. Must have picked them up, that sliver of pointelle cotton, must have looked at them closely enough to determine what they were. Might he have noticed the fabric was still wet, cold to the touch between his fingers?

Your tongue ran along the back of your teeth at the thought of him holding them, feeling the material in his hands, against his skin. At the thought of him knowing it had been the only barrier between his finger and your–

“Honeybee!” Hissed your sister through sharp teeth, and you jumped – spun around on the heel of your boot with your hands pinned to your sides.

John stood in the open front door. Arms crossed. All three of them looked dead at you.

“Coming,” you bleated, walking towards them as casually as you could make yourself appear. Your heart was fat in your throat, and your skin was sheeny with anxious sweat and humidity.

You caught John’s eye as you sheepishly scooped a stray curl and tucked it behind your ear. His expression was rigid as stone, eyes squinting, lips in a censorious curl under his beard. The weight of his glare was leaden and your feet felt heavy.

Did he know what you were looking for in his truck?

There was a faint quirk in his brow, you saw, as you approached and stood slyly behind your older siblings. A glint of surprise. Perhaps agog at the bravura of showing up at his home after your transgression, bold enough to bare your face to him.

“Whole family, eh?” He asked gruffly, heavy stare only leaving you when Miles offered a pleasant chuckle.

“Only polite,” Miles said warmly, glancing over his shoulder at you. “Lil’ miss has some making up to do, too.”

Your cheeks turned apple-red and you fought back the scowl that tugged at your mouth. Lil’ miss. Good at calling on your father’s old patronising habits, Miles.

John only seemed to find the comment amusing, letting out a low huff, cracking a faint smirk.

“S’that so?” He coaxed, amused. Sharp blues fastened to you once again, and you could only pick at your fingernails.

You held your tongue, hoping you could convey that he’s the one who needs to apologise without having to say it aloud. His smugness was unearned, you had just as much to reveal about him as he did you.

He knew you wouldn’t out yourself. You could see it in his sinking smirk.

“It’s a new day, eh?” He grunted, standing to the side and flicking his head to beckon the lot of you inside. “C’mon in, then.”

Your siblings filed in first, but you dithered by the door. John waited in the arch, thick arms crossed cavalierly over his chest, he looked down his nose at you. You hoped he’d venture in after Evelyn and you could slink in behind, but he stayed put. Waiting for you to pass him. Kept your eye as you glowered up at him, daring him to say something; to admit what he had found, to apologise for assailing you, to castigate you for your insolence.

There was plenty you wanted to say to him, and the words itched at the very tip of your tongue. You stifled them with your teeth instead. Let out an impudent huff as you nudged past him, and he followed closely behind you, shutting the door. You felt his livid warmth on your back, heard his coarse breathing and felt it tickle your hair. The adrenaline thumping through your runny blood made your fingertips tingle, you closed them into fists.

The foyer was grand, almost cavernous; stained walnut wainscotting on all the walls, old patterned rugs peppered every floor. The enormous staircase unfurled in the centre of the hall, second story mezzanine wrapped around its edges, ornate spindle balustrades wrapped the stairs and the loft. An enormous light fixture hung from the centre second story ceiling, fashioned of deer antlers and many coruscant lightbulbs. You wondered how long it had been there. How many Prices ago it had been made by hand out of the severed antlers of hunted game.

Seems your siblings had been here for many meetings before, because they knew immediately where to go – put themselves in some sort of drawing room past the stairs, and you meekly followed them. Had Mr Price at your tail like a collie herding you where he wanted you.

Led you to the room containing two imposing leather sofas, facing each other, a large slab of polished wood serving as a coffee table between them. The furthest wall contained floor-to-ceiling glass cabinets, filled to the brim with upright rifles. Long and short, hunting rifles, shotguns, double-barrels. Some of them looked a hundred years old. Towering transom windows lined the eastern wall, bathing the room in the dim ashen glow of the cloudy sky outside. A spinning fan hung from the ceiling.

You noticed that there was another man in the room, only once you had been ferried in and stood awkwardly before you decided where to sit. He sat opposite your siblings with a black brick hat on his knee. Blond-haired and brown-eyed.

John must have noticed you staring blankly at him, because his hand landed on your shoulder. A purely cordial touch, and yet it made you wince like he had spanked you again.

“Ah, this’s Simon,” he said amicably, “he’s my foreman.”

Simon stood and reached over to shake your hand, silent type, and gave you a stiff nod when you slipped your hand in his and shook it. Big and calloused, like John’s.

Seemed to be business from there on. Miles opened his briefcase on the coffee table and pulled out a manila folder, a few sheets of paper with words and numbers printed on them. Evelyn had her laptop open on her knees. John and Simon leaned back into the couch with apathy engraved in their stone faces. Seemed your siblings were the ones here to do business. They were buttering him up for something.

You went to sheepishly sit on the couch next to Miles as he started droning on about some sale, something about acreage and borders and permits, whatever. You glanced at his papers in hopes of spotting a word or two that might have jumped out at you.

The moment you landed in the leather, though, you winced and sucked a gust of air through clenched teeth – the mark of Mr Price’s savage hand on your bottom burned white-hot under the sudden pressure, and the incisive pain shot through you like a bullet.

John’s murky glare was already on you when you looked across the room.

Didn’t need to say a word to you, his lour spoke for him. He was scolding you.

You wondered what he would say to you, if he let himself. What words his tongue formed behind his teeth as he glowered at you. Serves you right. Don’t you get caught. Does that burn feel good?

He opened his mouth to speak, and your stomach plummeted.

“Why don’t y’go fix us some drinks, girl?” he said gravely, directly to you, crudely interrupting your brother mid-spiel.

Your brows twitched into a bemused frown, jaw loose as you failed to summon a response to him.

Girl? The condescension in his tone made your blood roil in your veins, turbid with shards of spite. You weren’t stupid — you knew it was a thinly veiled demand to go away. To let the grown ups talk, as if you were not one of them.

“I—”

“Mm, good idea,” Evelyn cooed calmly – but the bulgy-eyed tight-lipped look she shot you snapped behave. “I’ll have an ice water.”

“Me too,” said John, arm hung insouciantly over the back of the sofa. “Lil’ slice o’ lime would be nice, eh?”

You scoffed. “Sure,” you grumbled, vitriolic facetiousness bleeding into the word. You pushed yourself up from the couch and thundered out of the room.

“You’re a doll,” John called after you, and you could hear the smugness coating his throat, thick as honey.

Prick. Prick.

You murmured it over and over under your breath as you steamed towards the kitchen, your angry boots echoing out in clunks with every step on his parquet floorboards. Only once you found your way to the kitchen entrance did you stop in your tracks, eyes raking over the cluttered counters and the open door to an outdoor veranda.

You didn’t have to pour them drinks. You didn’t have to do anything. You were as much an adult as any of them, regardless of how egregiously they patronised you, or how many years of life they had gained on you.

No, you could busy yourself with something else entirely.

You had a treasure to find.

The panties you fatuously left in his truck just to spite him. You wanted them back.

It made your head muzzy with unease to think of him sitting across from your siblings, chatting away about something innocuous, all the while your dirty little secret was tucked away in the back of his mind. Stashing it up like a slug in the chamber of a rifle. Ready to fire it whenever the opportunity presented itself, whenever you displeased him.

What could he have done with them? Perhaps he threw them away, tossed them in the trash where they belonged, or dumped them in the crick so he could be rid of them. Maybe he left them by the door, in anticipation of returning them. Maybe he has them in his pocket.

You started with the coat rack by his front door. Skulking around on the tips of your leather toes, you stuck your fingers in every pocket of every jacket, no luck.

Checked the laundry – fucking chaotic as it was in there, reeked of his sweat and the loamy smell of farm work. His boxers and sweat-stained t-shirts piled in baskets, plaid flannels tossed unlovingly over an ironing board, black triangular burns of a dropped iron painting the blue foam.

The richly heady scent in there made you dizzy and hot on the back of your neck. Made your stomach flutter. Smelled like the barn. Like him bending you over the hay.

No panties in there, either, and you dug through everything. Left it messier than it was when you got there, but you could be near certain he wouldn’t even notice.

Upstairs, next.

Crept up them as quietly as you could, begrudging the cries of the old wood as you made your way up. You noticed, as you made it to the landing, that all of the doors to old bedrooms were closed; those of his brothers, and his parents, sealed off like tombs.

It made you swallow. The air was heavier up there, dense with dust and solitude. It was hotter, too, all of the warmth of the lower storey funnelled up the stairs and pumped into the mezzanine, and it was pyretic just to breathe it.

One door was open, though, barely ajar. A tawny wax canvas jacket with a brown corduroy collar hung from the top of the old door. You recognised it immediately – John’s jacket. Old, worn-out, might have been his father’s, just like his hat. His bedroom, you were sure. You slithered towards it, holding your breath as devotedly as you might while submerged underwater.

And as you got closer, you spotted it – a glimmer of white, the tongue of pointelle cotton sticking out of an open pocket on his coat. Right there.

“Fuck y’think you’re doin’?” Came a bark from the stairs, and you jumped like a startled cat.

John came hounding towards you once he made it to the landing, and you immediately backed away from his door. You spun around to inch away, hoping you’d end up in a bathroom with a door that locked, but it became quickly obvious that you had nowhere to run.

Exasperation radiated from him with each ragged breath – sick and tired more than furious, it made you shrink all the same. With a few short strides he was behind you, and you chirped in fright when he grabbed you by your ponytail and yanked you back like a puppy on a lead.

He held your hair in a fist, pulling your head against his chest, angled back so you could look up at him from behind you.

“Lookin’ for something?” He asked throatily, a low growl, accusation on his tongue.

You yelped when he lightly tugged your ponytail, seemed to you like he did it just to make you squeak. “I was – I was just looking for the bathroom.”

“Liar,” he grunted.

“I’m n–”

“You’re in my good graces for now, honey,” he muttered, as his head craned beside yours, wiry beard grazing your cheek, “on account of your lil’ present.”

Your ribs clamped shut around your lungs. Fingertips turned ice cold. Present. Such a euphemistic way to put it. A present. You froze when you felt his hand on your buttock, wide enough to cup it, fixing into place over the wound he had already left there.

“But don’t you push your luck.”

Then he squeezed, and you shrieked, muffled quickly by a winded whimper — the pain as blinding and searing as a branding iron, shape of his hand all but cooked permanently into your skin. The palm of his hand may as well have been barbed, pierced the skin with a million little needles, it might have even hurt less.

“That hurts,” you whined, cleaved to him by his grip on your hair.

“Good,” he growled.

Only then did he let you go, after twisting your body around to face the direction of the stairs.

“Go’on,” he barked, goading you forward with a smack on your ass. “Get.”

You meandered ahead like it hurt to walk.

John hoped it did. He hoped that every time you moved, every time you sat down, every time you accidently brushed it with the caress of your skirt, you thought of him. Of every apology he struck out of you. Of every line you’ve ever crossed.

Oh, what he’d give to see it.

He reprimanded himself every time the image crossed his mind, of your supple little ass, defaced by his punishment. He simply couldn’t help it. He imagined that the weal of his hand was raised there, pricked with plum and cherry red, a marker of his authority. Of his territory.

He had to be rid of you. Couldn’t focus on a single word lobbed at him by your diplomat of a brother while you were in the room with him, sucking up all the air and every drop of his attention. The dramatic suck of your teeth as you landed on the brand he gave you, just rubbing it in.

Such a little shit, you were. Intractable animal. Asked you to fix a drink, and you couldn’t even do that.

No, you slinked around his home instead, sticking your misbehaving little fingers into every room, filling his house up with the smell of you. Good thing he caught you before you snuck into his bedroom, leaving trails of you in his only refuge. He wouldn’t be able to sleep if you had.

He kept a pointed glare hitched on your back as he followed you, limbs and teeth braced to chase and tackle you if you dared to bolt in any direction. But, a good girl for once, you made your way to the stairs, little eyes flicking over your shoulder every now and then to check whether he was still following you. He didn’t let more than two feet stretch between his body and yours. Not stupid enough to take that risk again.

Far less revealing dress this time. He could still see down the neckline, and you had probably made sure of that. Could see the swell of your breasts, soft and round, their rise and fall as you breathed so meekly against him. Couldn’t see your pebbled nipples through the fabric, though. Skirt was quite a bit longer. For the best.

He guessed your sister might have told you to wear it, proper as she was. Always painfully worried about image, and yet he could see right through her and your slimy prick of a brother.

Still had no clue what to make of you.

Were you cognisant of the effect you had on him? Were you toying with him for your own sake, or for theirs?

Either way, he didn’t want it.

Trouble.

Your siblings waited for you at the bottom of the stairs, Evelyn with her arms crossed, and Miles gave him a suspicious glare through his pinched eyes on his way down. Mustn’t have liked the way John handled his little sister. Either too much of a coward, or too hungry for his bargain to say anything. Or, equally as likely, he was utterly blind to your exploits, enigmatic as you were.

Didn’t matter. John could not give less of a shit about your brother’s notions.

“Found ‘er,” he barked, watching as you grouchily wandered between the two of them and swiftly escaped through his front door.

Evelyn pinched the bridge of her nose, an exasperated groan. “What was she doing this time?”

John huffed. “Looking for the bathroom,” he said dryly, immediately questioning why he lied for you. So he buffered it; “Apparently.”

“Sorry about her,” she said stiffly, it was evident you’d be receiving a scolding once the lot of you got home. “She’s – ugh. You know.”

He had nothing to say to that.

“Well – thanks for having us by, anyway, Jonathan,” she continued, suddenly perking up, returning to her prim and proper self. “Hope you’ll think about it? Just give us a call, will you? Or – drop by, you know, whenever. Door’s always open.”

He nodded apathetically. “Uh-huh.”

She returned with a nod of her own, a hopeful one, before she tucked her laptop under her arm and followed out after you, where you waited winsomely at the top of the porch steps.

Miles sauntered towards him, then, thumbs tucked aloofly into the pockets of his jeans, until one hand landed on John’s shoulder. Gave him a squeeze, tighter than would be friendly. His jovial smile was translucent, and it faded fast, once the girls were out of earshot.

“Don’t you fuck me on this, Jonathan,” he said derisively, snarled under breath.

John chewed on nothing. His hands were in fists of their own volition. If he were to speak he’d say something regrettable, he knew himself well enough to be certain of that. So he said nothing, only glowered at the man who all but threatened him.

“It’s the best offer we’re ever gonna get,” Miles rigidly insisted. “You know that as well as I do. We’ll be under in two years. Three if we’re lucky. This ain’t our world anymore.”

John took measured breaths through his nose. Licked his teeth. The urge to maul the man like a bear rankled in every muscle. You probably wouldn’t forgive him, if he did such a thing.

“You wanna keep that hand?” He asked hoarsely, monotone, through a clenching jaw.

Miles grinned at that, as sunny as ever, before landing two genial pats on John’s shoulder.

“S’alright,” he said, as he stepped back, fixing his black hat to the top of his head. Shot a glance at Simon, who hovered behind John like a shadow, until then unnoticed. “You’ll come around.”

You had left your bedroom door open when you put yourself to bed that night.

Not to let anyone in, God forbid; though you did find yourself seeing the cowboy’s silhouette in your doorframe, a shadow in your periphery. Your heart flitted in your chest before you blinked him away.

Instead the decision was some callback to your teenagehood. You had learned at fourteen that your cast iron doorknob squealed and clattered in dispute when you twisted it; loud enough to alert your father whenever you attempted to sneak out of the house after nightfall. Through trial and error, you discovered that if you left your oaken door ajar, only slightly, it would appear closed from the corner of the hall – where daddy would peek around before barking, good night, Honeybee.

You were an adult now, though, and your father was long gone. For a time your brother tried to adopt the habit of monitoring you, but it was futile, even in your youth.

You confounded even yourself with your precaution. You weren’t going anywhere, were you? No rules you intended to break?

Your toes twitched. And your fingers twiddled. You squeezed your eyes shut, as if holding them closed for long enough would trick your mind into sleep, and didn’t instead focus the entirety of your attention on the still lingering sting of Mr Price’s hand.

You couldn’t help but circle like a vulture the memory of the ground under your knees, the hay under your elbows. The barbaric clap of his hand on your skin, the grinding of your kneecaps into the gravelly dirt on every thrust. What you daydreamed his expression might have been as he hurled his retributive hand into the bare skin of your cheek.

Might he have been frowning? Grinning? Did he inspect the damage of his handiwork very closely? Did he let his eyes linger on your curves and valleys longer than he should have?

What went through his mind as he let his thumb venture down the cleft of you, as he pushed the tip into your slit through your sodden gusset? Might he have been marvelling in the wetness? Repulsed by its implication?

What was he going to do with your knickers, your present as he called it? You imagined them tangled in his fingers, tucked into his fist in his pocket. Him pinching the fabric between his thick fingers as he spoke to his ranchmen. Would he tell his foreman about it? Would he show him?

Now you were entirely awake. Glaring holes into your plaster ceiling, listening to the hammering of your heart in your ears.

Baking alive in your bed, you were covered only by your thin cotton sheet, and even that was too hot. You sweltered in it, a torrid heat that made your hair crispy and skin itchy. Sweat beaded along your brow, clammy on the back of your neck, and no matter how you laid, you found no comfort. No relief.

Soon, you had slipped out of bed completely.

You had not decided on a course of action, yet you crept through the gap in your bedroom door. The moonlit hallway moaned grumpily as you slithered down the stairs, ensuring the patter of your bare feet on the hardwood was as silent as you could muster.

Plucked your father’s old Carhartt chore coat from its hook by the back door, canvassy and speckled with mud, and pulled it over your bare arms to provide at least some protection from the night. It was longer than your floral linen nightie, short and sheer as it was. You didn’t bother with shoes, your seasoned feet were well used to tip-toeing around the prairies bare. With a careful push of the screen door you stepped out onto the veranda, following your nose without the need for a torch.

The night air was a cool relief, gentle and calming on your febrile skin. The quiet song of crickets filled the breezeless air, the occasional cry of a coyote in the far distance. Kept at bay by the guardian dogs that littered your ranch. Sometimes you thought you could sleep out there, curled up in the grass like a barn cat, if it weren’t for the gnats.

You knew the path to Mr Price’s property so well you could navigate it with your eyes shut. Every rock to skip over, every fallen fence post, every tree marking the way. Nonetheless the swollen moon glowed unfettered by clouds, bathing the grassy hills in ultramarine and illuminating the way as you hopped his decrepit fence.

You had a plan.

Knew where the knickers were. In the pocket of his canvas jacket, hung on his door. He wouldn’t be expecting you to sneak in after dark, so surely his guard would be down. He’d be sat with his feet up in his lonely sitting room, cigar hooked in his finger, watching baseball highlights or whatever else solitary men busied themselves with. You were sure he wouldn't be sleeping yet. It wasn’t even ten at night, knowing him, he probably only turned in an hour or two ago.

His ominous homestead came into view through the cottonwood trees, as you scampered between their trunks and over the vibrant underbrush. You creeped around the front of the house, silent step after silent step, hoping to spot an open window.

And you found one, barely open, a sash window raised only an inch — you stuck your nosy fingers between the gap, carefully lifting the heavy pane by its dark-stained trim. Slipped inside like a little burglar.

It was dark inside. You found yourself in what looked like a study, bulky mahogany desk in the centre of the room, spinning chair tucked underneath it. It was busy, filled to the brim with clutter and signs of life – seemingly untouched, layered in dust like it had been long abandoned. You supposed a man like Mr Price didn’t give much time to studying.

You took a single step, and froze – your chore coat rustled loudly, dangerously so, even with a mere breath it threatened to alert your reticent neighbour to your intrusion. So you cautiously slipped your arms from its roomy sleeves, and gently left it in a pile by the very window through which you had trespassed.

Now truly silent you inched towards the foyer like a spider. Every step whisper silent, moved on the balls of your feet, swallowed shallow breaths.

The light was on in the kitchen – must be in there, you thought, and you avoided going anywhere near it. Instead you slithered up the staircase, one by one, where the faintest amber glow poured from an open door. As you retraced your steps to the landing, along the loft, to his door – the coat was gone.

You would have cursed if you could speak aloud. Fuck, fuck, fuck.

You could well have turned and left, abandoned the expedition altogether and prayed he didn’t hear you escaping. But you were in deep, now. Deep enough that giving up felt like a greater risk than persevering. Sunk cost.

He must have hung the coat on the back of his door, or maybe dumped it on the end of his bed, or tossed it over the back of a chair. Perhaps he wore it out for the day, ensuring the panties were on his person, in case you dared to commit the very crime you now did.

With kittenish fingers on the door, you eked it open, and its old dry hinges whimpered with the movement. Peeking through, you saw the origin of the faint light was seeping from a separate room; an ensuite, likely, though his bedroom was still bathed in darkness.

It was different than how you had imagined it. You pictured something sparse, messy, beer bottles on the chest-of-drawers and a tissue box by the bed. A bachelor suite.

Instead, it was well-kept. A painting of a pine-coated landscape hung over his bed, framed in ornately carved wood. His bed was made, an old hand-made quilt folded over by the head, and a plaid woolen blanket draped over the end. Little picture frames sat in a line on his dresser, too dark to see of who – but there were three of them, so you could guess. Two brothers and a pair of parents.

His room smelled of him, warm and musky, rich with the terpenic scent of chypre cologne and cigar smoke. It made your mouth water.

Then, you found them.

Your little cotton knickers. Hung from the brass knob of the top drawer of his dresser. Bright white against the darkly stained pine.

You swallowed and it went down your throat like broken glass. He hadn’t even hidden them. Brazenly hung them on display for anybody to see.

Foolish of him.

You glissaded towards the chest-of-drawers, plucked them from the knob with shaky fingers, and triple checked they were yours. And they were, absolutely – you could tell by the little satin rose of pink ribbon that adorned the front of them.

Relief rinsed you warm and sweet once they were bundled in your hand, objective achieved. Yours again. You only needed to–

“Adding burglary to the list, are you?”

The rumbling voice blurted out from behind you and you sprung from the ground like a rabbit, squealing in the shock that wracked you.

You swivelled in a blink with your heart in your throat, facing the man who had caught you. Still shaking with adrenaline, you could scarcely wrangle your tongue to utter a single word in your defence.

“I’m – they’re–”

“Didn’t expect that,” he drawled.

It was difficult to make him out, the tall silhouette of the prodigious man against the light of his ensuite bathroom, broad shoulders rocking as he sauntered in your direction. You watched in silence as he tucked in the tongue of the powder-blue towel wrapped around his hips. His tousled hair was wet and spiked – freshly showered, you guessed, the benzoin scent of his soap lingered in the air around him.

“I’m – I’m not burg – burgling,” you stammered, finally finding your words, you straightened your spine. “I’m taking them back.”

“No you’re not,” he grumbled, edging towards you, heavy thuds with each arrogant step.

You were frozen in place. Shivering as though cold. Toes digging into the hardwood like it might fall out from beneath you.

The moonlight glaring through his open window barely illuminated him on his approach; carving out the valleys of his gladiatorial chest, thick pectorals cast shadows over the well-padded abdominals of his bare stomach. His fuzzy towel sat precariously low on his hips, your impudent stare couldn’t help but trace the damp brown curls that trailed down from his navel.

“They’re not yours,” you disputed, balling the soft panties in your fist and tucking your arms behind your back in a juvenile effort to hide them from him.

Only once his face was doused in the silver light from the window could you make out his features; lids hung low over dark eyes, goading lips in a stern curl under his beard.

“Yeah, they are,” he challenged, low voice oozing scorn. A shrinking foot away from you, you felt the heat of him radiating out from him, licking at your skin with warm little tongues. “They were a gift.”

Your brows knit together as you endeavoured to stand your ground, tilting your head back so that you could glower up at him. You wrestled with yourself for any defences and found none. Nothing to say for yourself, no excuse to muster, no dispute to mount.

“They were not a gift,” was all you said, puerile as you were.

“Then they’re a fine,” he grunted, smirk fading, reaching a sturdy arm towards and around you.

His indignant hand gripped your bicep, reeling it out from behind your back and pulling it towards him with absurd ease. You resisted – attempted to, at least – but any resilience in your arm was quick to falter, and he presented your balled fist palm-up like you had offered the prize to him of your own volition.

Skittish eyes darted from your hand to his steely lour, you imagined yourself flipping a coin.

Admit defeat; relinquish your cotton sin to its new owner, embolden him with your acquiescence, and find a way to live with the knowledge of their presence in his pocket. Or, better yet – snatch your knickers in a tight fist and scurry into the night, throw them into the woodburner when you get home, and pretend none of it had ever happened.

Landed on tails. You impulsively yanked your fist from his grip, ducked past him with a hop and a skip, before bolting on your shaky legs towards his bedroom door.

But as if he had readily anticipated that very move, predictable as you were, his thick arms had snatched you up before you had even noticed your capture. You squeaked in dispute, his arms like pythons constricted around you so tightly that they forced a desperate mewl from your throat. He riveted you firmly against his chest, tips of your toes barely grazing the hardwood beneath you.

Jaw pressed to the side of your head, his breathing was warm and strained against the burning shell of your ear.

“You want them back,” he rumbled, the barbarity in his voice sending cold terror down the nape of your neck. “You wear ‘em.”

Sipping quick and shallow breaths, you didn’t dare wriggle or buck in defiance of him. Not this time. There was a threat in his tone, ferine yet forthright, oozing from his throat like molten iron.

“Y-” you stuttered dizzily, heart thundering in your ears. “You want me to put them on?”

“Uh-huh,” he answered, cocksure, the vibration of his frayed voice prickled in your skin.

He released you, then, and you dropped to your bare feet with a quiet thud. Fist clenched tightly around your ball of cotton, you sucked in a quivering breath before daring to move.

He crossed his arms imperiously, sniffed gruffly, already impatient. “Put ‘em on.”

You nervously unfurled the white floral fabric from between your fingers. Checking them briefly to ensure you didn’t put them on back-to-front, you spread the waistband, and began to lean forward.

“Other ones off first,” he groused, and you blinked at him over your shoulder.

“I’m-” you began, cutting yourself off with a swallow as you meekly turned to face him. Warm blood rushed to the apples of your cheeks. “I haven’t got any on.”

You swore a smirk tugged at the corner of his ever-severe mouth, but he simply let a hoarse breath out through his nose. Letting your confession float unchallenged in the turgid air between you.

“You’re a real troublemaker,” he chided, through gritted teeth. “Aren’t you.”

“I’m not,” you retorted, feeble and unpersuasive.

“No?” He sneered. “You break into my house in that pathetic little dress and no panties on, and you wouldn’t call that making fuckin’ trouble?”

“I-”

“Put them on.”

His order was as hard and piercing as a bullet, and it turned your blood runny as water, flooding hot into the most illicit parts of you.

Made obsequious, you followed his command. Bent forward and stepped your first toe through the leg of your panties, delicately placing your foot back to the floor, then followed the other.

You drew careful air through wet lips as you shimmied the thin fabric up your thighs, forced to lift the slippery hem of your nightie as you adjusted them around your hips, a gentle snap as you flick the elastic of the hem to fix it over your unmarred cheek. You winced as the gusset sat flush with your pussy, cringing at the knowledge they had already been worn – they were dry, now, at least, no longer sodden with lust and sweat. Satisfied with their positioning, you floated the thin skirt back down to cover them, stroking your hips to settle the fabric.

John stood across from you with his wide hand over his mouth, thumb and forefingers rubbing his cheeks as if releasing some tension in his grinding jaw. The rigid muscles of his arms strained and twitched under his ruddy skin. Tension visible from where you stood.

With a huff, he straightened his spine, and your stare jumped to the long weight under his towel. Dawned on you that he wore nothing underneath it. Suddenly felt light-headed.

He grunted. “Show ´em to me.”

Your lips parted just slightly, toes curled, you obliged him. With impish fingers you clutched the lacy hem of your slip, coaxing it upward, you folded it into pleats in your fists. Up, up, up. The cool of the air between your legs was almost a relief.

He inched forward. Closer to you.

“Turn around.”

Sucked your bottom lip between your teeth, and worried for a moment you might chew it off. With your skirt hitched up, you spun around slowly on the tips of your toes until your nose was a few inches from his dresser.

You felt his warm breathing on the top of your head, he was behind you. Sandwiched you between his body and his chest-of-drawers. Your only hope of escape was to do what you were told.

With his thumb he grazed the hem of your panties where it sat against your disfigured cheek, and the sudden sting made you twitch.

“S’that hurt?” He asked roughly, and for a delirious moment you thought you might have heard some tenderness in his tone.

You nodded flimsily. “Yes.”

“Mh,” he grunted, whole hand ghosting over the sore skin as if to feel the texture of your wound on his palm. “Didn’t teach you a thing, did it.”

“What was it s’posed to teach me,” you breathed, careful with your words.

His paw raked over your side, fixing at your hip. “To stay the fuck away.”

“I can–” You panted, tongue heavy in your mouth, “I can go away. I can go.”

His domineering hands were at your waist, the hem of your little dress scooped up with them.

“Not now, you won’t.”

Your stomach turned to lead.

Suddenly possessed by the skittish need to bolt, you lurched to the side to un-wedge yourself from between him and the dresser – let out a squeal when he predictably ensnared you with leviathan arms. He wrangled you like cantankerous livestock, growling as he wrestled you until your back landed against the drawers.

“Mister–” You yelped tightly, all air squeezed out of you by his restraint.

“Play stupid games, girl,” he snarled, “Y’win stupid prizes.”

You whimpered, blinking up at him through fluttering lashes, a hair's breadth away from you. His eyes were almost sinister, pinned to you, inky black pools blown wide in the darkness. Predatory.

“I’m sorry—” you squeaked, flustered and winded.

Almost cracked a smirk. “Too late for that.”

Even as he threatened you, you were helplessly magnetised to him. His harsh glare oozed hatred and hunger and it made your heart buzz like a bee trapped in the cage of your ribs. He pinned you forcefully to his chest-of-drawers, a brass knob pressed into your spine, and like a broken filly your resistance turned to butter. Unctuous and supple.

You weren’t certain whether he had sensed your capitulation, or if he simply steamrolled ahead in his blind paroxysm whether you liked it or not. His titanic hands had you by the thighs, and he jounced you up, propping you up on the very edge of a drawer that stuck out a mere inch from the dresser. You chirped as the hard wooden edge cut into your raw bottom – hurt less, somehow. Distracted.

He kept your thighs jammed tightly together by his legs, and used a single hand to cuff both of your wrists, pinned them to your sternum.

Your vision was blurry, skin burning so hot you could sear something on it – you looked down, and his towel had been shirked from his hips, cock landed heavy on your belly.

Heavy, the operative word – you could see the flesh of your belly pillowing out around its trunk, thick and lengthy, shaft leading down to a bed of dark curls at the base of his stomach. Your throat swelled shut as you stared at it, dizzy at the sight, as he hooked two fingers into the waistband of your knickers.

He yanked the front of your panties down with impatience, unveiling your mound and making the taut elastic cut into the flesh of your hips. Didn’t pull them off all the way, though, only allowed himself enough room to feed his cock through the gap between your cunt and the gusset of your underwear.

The lips of your pussy spread like petals as he wedged his cock between them, and your breath lodged in your throat – but he didn’t pierce you with it, not at that angle. The aperture between your cunt and thighs was tight, tight enough for him to gain traction, and it made you whimper.

Only once the round head of his cock was buried in the valley of your pussy did you realise how slick you were. Mortifyingly so. Your syrup had pooled there, undisturbed until he split you open, and now you painted his shaft with it.

He cracked a proud smile. Canines caught the glint of moonlight. His breathing turned ragged and you felt it on your open lips, sucking down the hot air he exhaled, and it made you feel drunk.

“Feral little thing, ain’t ya?” He growled, grinding his cock out of the slit of your thighs before driving it back in, the friction of his shaft against your clitoris made your eyes flutter shut.

You only let out a little mewl in reply, trapped against the hard dresser that shook and clattered with every movement. He fucked the fissure between your thighs and cunt in earnest, and it was somehow embarrassing; that he refused to grant you the dignity of fucking you properly, of surfeiting your starved cunt with even an ounce of real attention. He gripped his cock by the base of his shaft and guided it into the slim gap, offering you only the chafing of his iron-hard length against your pebbled clitoris as he rutted.

It was barely satisfying, but it made you twitch and shiver with a neglected pleasure – just enough to turn you syrupy sweet, not enough to truly sate the little creature in you that put you in this very predicament. You tried to tighten your thighs, firmer than they were already, in the desperate hope that it might augment the pressure of his cock burnishing your slit, might drive it in at the right angle to break into you.

But it wasn’t about you. Your enjoyment was inconsequential to him.

This was your punishment.

You could tell he approached the zenith of his own pleasure as his breathing became frayed and arrhythmic, and his thrusts unsteady – he stilled, large fist gripping his cock, and while his blunt head was still tunnelled into your knickers, he began to shuck his dick from its base, jerking off into the gap.

It was mortifying – besides the denigration itself, of having him masturbate himself with you – the downright pitiful desperation you were dripping with. Coating his cock in it and yet remaining ignored. The tingles of an orgasm fluttered around you like a butterfly you could not catch, coiled up and unwinded over and over with every inward and outward rake of his shaft.

You had no freedom to move while you were entangled with him; legs pinned shut and feet dangling off the ground, hands manacled to your chest so tightly your fingertips went cold. You had no option but to take what little he gave you.

He let out a stifled groan, and you gasped when you realised he was coming — you watched his face as he finished himself, as you felt his come pump into the gusset of your panties, filling up the gap between your lips as he chased a few final ruts. You felt his cock jolt with the aftershocks of his climax, and he rested the entirety of his weight against you, forcing the rest of the air out of your feverish lungs. His jaw was viciously tight, huffing through his nose like a bull, and his squinting blue eyes were glued to you. Lucent with spite and a potent satisfaction.

“Y-you–”

“Don’t make a damn fuss,” he muttered wryly, short-winded.

You whined as he tugged his cock from between your thighs, returning your knickers to their chaste position with a snap of the elastic over your mons.

“You shouldn’t have – have done that–”

He all but snorted at that, as he stepped back from you – let you fall to your feet from where he had jammed you against the drawers. Kept your hands shackled together, though. “What else did you come here for, then, eh?”

My panties stayed unspoken, because it would have been a lie.

You flinched when he raised his free hand, but he only grazed your jaw with his thumb. “Wanted a fuck, did you?”

Your head nodded itself despite your lack of instruction. Subconscious. Too humiliating to confirm of your own will.

“Ain’t gonna happen,” he grunted, as he finally released your cuffed hands, dropping down to pick up the towel he had left in a pile on the floor.

You moaned, rubbing your tender wrist, light-headed after the blustering outburst. Felt his come between your folds, slippery and hot, it escaped through the groin of your knickers and ran down the inside of your thigh.

“Why not,” you whinged, quietly, as though hopeful he wouldn’t hear it.

“Gotta earn it,” he jeered. “I ain’t rewarding your fuckin’ behaviour.”

You wouldn’t tell him even this was a reward, in itself. The frustration was blistering hot, thumping in your temples. “I hate you.”

“I bet,” he snorted, as he fixed his towel around his waist once again. “G’on. Go home.”

You scowled at him, lips curled and brows knitted tight. You wanted to throw something at him.

“Fine,” you griped, as you reached under your dress to pull down your defiled knickers.

“Don’t you dare,” he snapped. “You keep ‘em on and you walk in ‘em.”

Your jaw went slack. “Are you serious?”

“Does it look like I’m jokin’?”

It didn’t. Not a bit. He wore that same rigid face that sunk in his features every time he scolded you, lips in a line under his dense beard, brows flat and heavy over his squinting eyes. Somehow made more severe while he was without a shirt, you could see every ireful twitch of the worn muscles that rippled under his sun-baked skin. He could hurt you worse, if he wanted to. The thought makes you sweat.

“Fine,” you groaned, again, and you impudently rammed him with your shoulder as you stormed past him and out of his bedroom door.

You heard his low chortle on your way out, but he didn’t call out for you. No more snide remarks. You bashfully returned to the dark study, picked up your father’s chore coat, and slipped out the same window you had broken into.

The walk back was sticky and uncomfortable. Suddenly you felt like buzzing insects were hovering around you, landing on your skin, hoping to poke in and suck you dry. The baying coyotes sounded closer than before, just over the hill. The moonlit air wasn’t cool enough to mollify your temper. The wheaten grass was sharp and splintery under your bare feet. The come in your gusset was viscid and gooey, glued between your thighs with every step.

Yet, you were grotesquely proud of it. Wearing the evidence that Mr Price wasn’t as mighty as he purported to be. He didn’t ride a high horse. He came in your panties and made you walk in it, as a punishment.

Truly depraved man. You knew that confidently, now. If he thought he had deterred you, he was sorely mistaken.

You didn’t bother being quiet when you finally returned home after a slow and sulky walk through the night. Dumped your jacket on the floor by the back door rather than hanging it on its hook, trudged up the crying stairs and shut your door with a clank once you got to your bedroom. You tore the linen sheet off your bed and left it astray, before falling immediately into your mattress, flat on your stomach.

You fell straight to sleep.

a/n: far be it from me to insert a political statement into my cowboy porn, but as a non-american depicting a sanitised rural USA, i feel the need to make clear my stance on everything happening over there (and the ripple effects it is having on the rest of the world): fuck trump and all his nazi partymen, fuck everyone who voted for him, and fuck every non-american who would have if they could. if you are supportive of or ambivalent about the oligarch-cum-drinking, bold-faced-fascist ideology of he and his ilk, just know that every breath you take is a fucking waste of oxygen. and if you're upset by that sentiment then fuck you too. no middle ground on this! love ya

#john price x reader #price x reader #captain price x reader #captain price #john price x f!reader #cod fanfic #call of duty fanfic #cowboy price #bella-writes

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justagirlswrld · 1 month ago

Text

AITA FOR GOING THROUGH MY BOYFRIENDS PHONE?

a/n- i’m a mark grayson groupie 😥☝🏽. first attempt at smut, hope yall enjoy.

summary: rex is an asshole (what’s new) but mark is there to help you feel better.

warnings: sorry for errors it’s 1 am. unprotected p in v. things that happen in sex happen in this. feed back welcome :). porn w plot.

You felt insane as you laid under your thick comforter and pretended to be asleep. It was going on 1 am and you initially had been tired from beating up criminals all day, now your mind raced too much to even think about sleep.

You focused on keeping your breathing shallow and your body relaxed when the bathroom door swung open and you assumed Rex walked in. Your suspicions were confirmed when he began singing a low tune, trying not to wake you, you guessed.

When the bed finally dips from Rex’s weight you focus on keeping your voice from hitching. He slings an arm around your waist above the covers then falls asleep on his stomach. You stay in your original position with your arms folded beneath your head for what feels like forever.

You gingerly begin to sit up when you hear Rex’s light snores. You turn towards him as gently as possible. Your eyes search his bedside, only guided by the moonlight as you look for what’s keeping you up at night: Rex’s phone.

You and Rex had been dating since meeting one faithful day a year ago. The Guardians of the globe were getting their ass handed to them before you stepped in. You hadn’t thought much of him the first time you saw him in his orange suit but things changed majorly when he got undressed.

You became fast friends with Eve even though she dated Rex before. “Our experiences may be different but the Rex I knew was a cheating asshole. Rex doesn’t know how to have just one.”, Eve says to you one calm day over lunch. You waited for her to start smiling or laughing or for a last minute just kidding but neither came. Her words were keeping you up at night so you had to know.

You felt a little twinge of guilt because you weren’t usually this invasive. You knew you’d hate it if someone did this to you but…you couldn’t shake the little devil on your shoulder telling you to look through it.

You finally spot Rex’s cracked phone in the darkness, poking out from under your white pillow. You slyly reach over his still frame and very slowly pull the phone from under the pillow.

Your heart is pounding in your chest as you hold the phone in your hand, It feels like that one time you had to fly a ticking bomb into space.

You type in the password you discovered by looking over his shoulder and watching him pin in earlier in the day. Rex will be so distracted by his phone you could stab him in the back and he wouldn’t notice, so it wasn’t surprising you were able to peak over his shoulder and get the information you needed.

When the phone unlocks you swear the devil on your shoulder is jumping around in happiness. It’s like you can whispers of gooo throoouuggghhh hisss textsss.

So, you do. Making sure to keep an eye on Rex’s slumbering body.

You let out a shaky sigh as you finish going through his messages , nothing incriminating there.

You begin switching to his photos, thinking that maybe you were overreacting. Until your eyes are looking at a picture of a girls fat ass. Your eyes bulge, you swear they almost pop out the socket as you swipe through the photo library.

It seems like the photos of the girls are endless. Ass, boobs, even girls spreading open their- you throw the phone on the bed as tears well in your eyes. You throw the covers back and stomp over to your closet not caring how much noise you make. “Babe, can you keep it down.”, Rex’s raspy voice says as you pull on your sweats, “you’re sniffling sorta loud.”

The covers rustle as you slip on your uggs and you hear Rex let out a tiny “oh,shit”. He’s scrambling to get out of the bed as your walking to your bed room door, “Babe, it’s not even like that-it doesn’t even count as cheating because it’s just pictures and…a little bit of texting.”

You turn to look at Rex down your nose as he keeps digging his hole, “Y/N, if you wouldn’t have looked in my phone it wouldn’t of mattered- it’s like initiation to be my girlfri-“. You groan cutting him off, “Be gone when I get back.”

You give Rex a look that could kill before walking out the door and slamming it behind you. As soon as you’re out the lobby of the apartment complex you take to the skies, going the only place you can think of in your time of crisis.

You knock on Mark’s bay window hoping he’s not sleeping. You float in the night air for a moment until Mark’s head is poking through the window with that goofy smile on his handsome face. “You know you can use the front door?”, He pushes the window open and you easily glide through it, dropping on his couch.

“I hope I wasn’t interrupting.” You’re only saying it to be polite, you notice the knocked over cups of Ramen and the half drunk gallons of Mountain Dew on the coffee table. Mark seems to notice too as a blush begins to bloom on his fair cheeks. He zooms over and grabs the trash from the table and throws it in the bin, he’s back over to you in a second.

“No-I was just-“, Mark’s words are cut off by the gunfire coming from the video game on the TV. You watch as it replays Mark’s solitary character being shot then tea bagged over and over until he exits out the game with the controller.

“Did I get you killed? i’m sorry.”, Mark sits beside you on the upscale couch, you wonder if his mom picked out his furniture for his apartment. “It’s cool. I sucked anyway…”, he trails off, slender fingers tracing patterns on the couch before looking up at you with big, brown eyes. “What are you doing here at two in the morning, anyway?”

You slap your hand against your head, “I completely forgot about the time-”, You contemplate telling Mark about what happened with Rex but decide against it. “I couldn’t sleep and figured you’d be up.” You look at him through thick lashes, “I hope that’s okay.”

“Ye-yeah, it’s fine. You wanna watch a movie or somethin’ ?”

The movie ends up being nothing but background noise as Mark lays between your thighs, feet almost hanging off the couch. He’s wearing nothing but loose, green basketball shorts so you can feel his hard dick through your thin sweats.

You mewl when his warm, mouth begins sucking on your neck. He switches from licking to sucking around your throat as you rub your fingers through his thick, black hair. His large hands begin to sneak up your shirt before twisting in the material instead, your hands doing the same to the hem of his shorts. Mark stops his ministrations and lays his face in the crook of your neck as he breathes heavily.

“Everything okay?”, You ask breathlessly, fingers scratching along his scalp. “What about Rex?”, his breath on your neck sends shivers down your spine. “We broke up.”, Mark looks up at you, his smile returning. “That’s why you came to see me.”

You bite your lip coyly, wrapping your arms around Marks waist so his hips are flush against yours. You begin to grind slowly against his still hard cock. It doesn’t do much but the feeling is enough to bring a warmth to your skin. “Is that a problem?”

He’s hovering over you now, using both hands as support. You watch the muscles in his biceps ripple as he begins to grind back into your clothed center. “I don’t have a condom…but Viltrumite’s can’t contact human diseases.” He moves down to his forearms, his breath warm on your face.

“I’m good too and me and Rex haven’t had sex for months.” Mark takes this as permission to stop his hips and you almost whine at the loss. He kisses you hard instead, this lasts for a moment as his hands roam your stomach, your waist and over your breasts.

Mark sneaks his nimble fingers into your bra. He rolls one hardened bud between his pointer finger and thumb, eliciting light moans from your pretty lips. He cups your other breast in his large hand, massaging the fat in a relaxing way.

In record time you’re sitting upright with Mark kneeling in between your legs. He pulls you to the edge of the couch and pulls your underwear and sweats down in one motion. He groans when he gets a glimpse of the moisture between your thighs, eyes flicking up to meet yours as he parts your legs.

“This okay?”, You stutter out a yes and without taking his eyes off you Mark licks a tentative stripe up your folds. You whine as he soaks his fingers with the wetness collecting between your lips. Once his fingers are to his liking he pushes both long digits into your flaming center. Mark is looking for, then slowly swirling your clit once he finds it. He twists his fingers in and out of you, the sound of your wetness joins the voices on the TV.

You grip the arm of the sofa as his rhythm turns fast and rough, eyes snapping closed in bliss. Your hips buck when he replaces the finger on your clit with his tongue, you toss your head back and pull his hair with your weak hands. You bite your lip as he watches you watch him from between your thighs.

Mark removes his mouth from your throbbing cunt for a moment, “Let me hear you baby…you’re making me so hard.” You can’t help but to moan at his words. Mark’s mouth returns and continues, fingers brutal.

His fingers are knuckles deep in your spasming cunt and that band in your stomach is ready to snap when Mark pulls his fingers from you and stuffs them in his mouth. Moaning around his own fingers like they were dipped in honey.

“Maark”, You whine and he shushes you while rising to his knees. Mark pulls you farther down the couch so you’re slumping. He pulls his shorts down his hips and his dick springs free. The sight makes your toes curl.

He’s a perfect specimen.

You lick your lips to stop your mouth from watering at his long, thick cock.

Mark runs his pink tip back and forth at your weeping entrance, “Fuuuck, you’re so wet.” He slowly pushes into you. Mark’s hands are against the back of your thighs for support, your legs folded. There’s a heavenly stretch as he bottoms out.

You two stay that way for a moment, Mark getting used to the feel of your gummy walls squeezing around him. You’re biting your bottom lip to keep from moaning and Mark kisses you rough and wet, “I told you I want to hear you.” He pulls out partly before sliding back deep inside you. He creates a pace that has your eyes rolling back and your mouth hanging open.

Mark curses and moans as he watches himself disappear between your leaking folds. The movie ended long ago, the sound of you and Mark’s heavy breathing and the squelching of where your sexes met echoed in his apartment.

He closes your legs now, angling his hips where he can push up into your cunt. His index finding your clit again.

After a few deep strokes the band in your stomach snaps and your toes curl. You whimper Marks name as he fucks you through your orgasm. He babbles on about you being ‘so pretty’ and how ‘your pussys so tight’. His hands move from your trembling thighs and ghost over your breasts and neck to hold your chin as he kisses you.

You squeeze around Mark and to his surprise that has his him coming deep inside you while he moans into your mouth. You think you might come again from the husky sound alone

His hips stutter and you rub his back with sweaty hands as he pulls out of you.

Mark lays with his head in your neck for a moment as you two try to catch your breath. Mark unexpectedly nips your ear causing you to laugh and push him off you before sitting up, “I should come here more often.”, You say with a smirk.

#invincible smut #invincible/reader #invincible x reader #mark grayson/reader #mark grayson x reader #mark grayson smut

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pricegouge · 3 months ago

Note

the boys are all bush lovers of course but I’ve been having thoughts of what shapes theyd like if their partner chooses to shave

heart, landing strip, etc

I think it’d be really funny if Ghosts partner surprised him with the heart his response being along the lines of “you think you’re cute huh?”

-🫀

i personally hate a landing strip i'm so sorry. avoiding it like the plague here lol

i think gaz is a neat triangle kinda guy. values trimming more than shaving but also appreciates when the bikini area is waxed.

john likes full bush lbr but is the same about a proper pruning. will help whenever he feels like it, grumbling about proper maintenance all the while. he did have a partner one time who shaved it to look like a J though and he's been chasing that high ever since.

if you present soap with a heart he won't let you out of bed til it grows out.

you've tried to get ghosts attention so many times with escalatingly strange configurations but it doesn't stick until he pulls down your panties one day and is met with a vaguely oblong blob. "what the bloody hell is that?" he asks bluntly and you can only shrug, motion limited with the way he's pinned you, palm planted flat just beside your ear.

"it's a skull of course. thought you'd like it?"

he hides the huff that dies in his throat in a hum as his palm slides lower, thumb tracing on of the tiny, lopsided eye sockets. "better soldier than you are an artist," he critiques, but he hikes your hips higher, head tilting as he tries to make sense of the poorly defined shape. "you just give up on the jaw?"

"no," you sing, daring to pull him closer with a hand wrapped around the nape of his neck. his breath is warm where he's got his nose pressed to your mound, tracing the rough lower edge of your curls, where the rough shape of a maxilla frames your cunt. when you continue to pull at him his own jaw hinges wide, wet tongue soft and pliant against your cunt. "it's just busy"

#gouge answers #🫀 anon #completely impossible shape to prune yourself into but i think its would be funny so we're just nodding along #simon riley x reader #simon ghost riley x reader #ghost x reader

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yandere-wishes · 3 months ago

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Idea, what if Catgirl!Darling/Reader was called Stray at some point or something and was like Selina’s sidekick at some point, so like Damian can tell Bruce he found a stray and oh it’s just another cat- that is a human

I don’t know, I’m on cough syrup cause I’m sick rn and my thoughts are all wonky

≽^•⩊•^≼≽^•⩊•^≼≽^•⩊•^≼≽^•⩊•^≼≽^•⩊•^≼

Bruce doesn't think much of it at first, after all his son has always had a penchant for taking in lost, stray, things.

He ascribes it, to genetics, to lineal impulses, to the macabre compassion pumping in his blood.

It's all very Wayne to bring home anguished, ferocious, things. To devote slivers of your soul to every hopeless little thing prowling the Gotham streets.

Bruce doesn't think much of it at first.

Damian had said he had brought home a stray

There was nothing unusual to think about.

But then he sees her, really sees her, the mangled girl with hellfire dancing in her sunken eyes. More cat than girl, more feline than human.

He notices the limp in her leg when she lunges for Damian. Notices her shaking hands when she tries to strangle the boy who only kisses her back. Licking at her lips as his nails dig into the back of her thighs. She claws at his chest. Little kitten trying to kill the robin. So Selina in every way.

Bruce didn't think much of it at first,

He's beginning to realize that was a mistake.

Damian kisses your neck, biting into the crux, nestling your sweet flesh between his teeth, he laps at the skin as you mewl in pain, claw-like nails raking at what little skin is exposed at the base of his neck. A dark chuckle escapes Damian's mouth, it sounds like the chirping of an arrogant robin upon first snowfall. It rings bitterly in your ears. He's enjoying this, isn't he? The little assassin boy may play noble hero, but he'll never escape his roots, his love for the pain, the thrill.

You curse silently at the monstrosity born from the unholy union between the dragon's heir and the bat. Curse at the characters from the stories your mentor, your big sister, used to tell you. When did they become so real? When did fairy tales marry epics and birth horror stories? When did the bird catch the cat?

Damian has your arms pinned painfully behind you, shoulders pulled back unnaturally, bones slipping from their sockets. His lips lower to your chest, kissing, biting, marring.

"Damian, when you said 'stray' I had thought you meant a hungry kitten you found in a back ally or a limping pup from the Narrows. Not Stray, as in the cat burglar."

Damian's emerald eyes lightened in confusion "What part was not clear Father?" his inquiry all too innocent for the boy who had been knawing on your sore lips moments prior. There's a moment of silence, as Bruce looks at you, studying you like a case file, like a cold case cracked open. You wonder if he sees her inside you. The traces of your mentor linger along your body like a second skin. Has he done the same for his sons? Left traces of himself amongst their flesh and bones.

You think it funny for a second, the cartoonish vision that blooms within your mind. That of a bat harboring four little chicks under its midnight wings, atop a mighty oak tree. Whilst underneath a black cat licks her kittens, fussing over their matted fur.

"I see the chemistry brewing between you two," Bruce says his voice carrying the stern baritone of a father, yet awkward and uncertain all in the same breath. "This isn't chemistry" you squeal, voice hoarse from all the screaming, all the uncomfortable vocalizations of pain. "This is phosphorous meeting ozone!"

"That's still technically chemistry" Damian corrects, hands clasped behind his back. Perfect little soldier boy, standing in attention. Waiting for a medal from his general.

Bruce sighs, a microscopic smile dancing across his plump lips.

"I'll let Selina know you're here, she must be worried." Your face lights up in joy, she'll be here soon to rescue you. To save you from the bat's nest. But as Damian pushes you to the nearest wall, caging you between his body and the cement, you think it all too impossible to be saved.

Bruce doesn't think much of it at first.

But he sees it all now.

Damian has always had a weakness for stray things.

He gets it from his father.

I feel like I can make this just a tiny bit darker if I really wanted to...

On a lighter note, Fancy you are my bestie so Imma rant to you for a bit (please don't mind this has been on my mind FOREVER and I need an outlet!!) But lately -in between train rides to school- I've been daydreaming SO hard about a "Catwoman Family" (and a "Batwoman family" cause Kate is the love of my life, but that's irrelevant for now!!)

Like we all know Batman has 4 sons and 3 daughters (I count barbara as his first daughter) but what about Catwoman? Doesn't she deserve a family of her own? Catgirl is my running idea for her sidekick BUT when you mentioned Stray!! I was like "Why not give the woman two daughters!!".

I'm really trying to carve out some time this weekend for drawing. And just sketch out my ideas for Catwoman and Batwoman's sidekicks!!

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shouyuus · 4 months ago

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oh my god I know you only posted that mechanic vi thing 6 hours ago but PAPA ME WANT MORE MOVIE 🤬🤬🤬 you have GYAT to extend it by like vi introducing us to vander or like idk like im tweaking like

🏃‍♀️🏃‍♀️🏃‍♀️

dont worry anon im right there with you ive spent nearly my entire day just maladaptively daydreaming about mechanic!vi

sfw; car mechanic!vi cinimatic universe continuation of this hc post

it is not the most formal of introductions -- but by the time you make it downstairs to the kitchen, swimming in one of vi's thrifted band tees and jogging shorts, tamping down your hair, vander's already on his second cup of coffee.

"well, well, if it ain't the red corvette with the busted radiator," vander says, grinning wide as you fight the urge to duck behind vi like an antisocial child.

"h-hi -- morning..." you mumble, even as vi chuckles and pours you a glass of orange juice.

"heard you guys went to jericho's diner last night," vander says, looking between you and vi as you slip onto one of the mis-matched bar stools sat against the tiny kitchen island.

"yeah! the banana split almost did me in though," you say, reaching for the tall glass of juice.

vander laughs, "yeah, those are famously impossible to finish, though from what i heard, you made a very diligent effort." he shoots you a wink even as vi elbows him in the side.

"i -- we --" you stutter, your cheeks flooding with color. vi rolls her eyes and scoops two perfectly poached eggs out of a pot, placing them on two slices of toast.

you blink as vander nudges the salt and pepper shakers towards you.

"how... how'dyou know i like my eggs poached?" you ask, looking between vi and vander. they share a knowing look; vi shrugs, grinning.

"lucky guess."

you tuck into the eggs and toast, humming happily around the golden yolk as it bursts in your mouth. vi watches you with soft eyes and vander's smile stretches wide as he leans against the counter.

"so. seems like your daddy's got good taste," he says, a soft laugh rumbling through him, deep and thick as thunder. you glance up, cocking your head. vander puts his coffee mug in the sink.

"he might not remember me but couple years ago, he brought over the most beautiful gullwing -- mercedes, from the 50's --"

"oh yeah!" vi says, her eyes brightening as she rinses out the breakfast things "that was a sick car."

vander nods, humming, "one o'the first luxury cars post-war... and one of my personal favorites. some people say it's a bit tacky but --" he shrugs, laughing, "i've always had a soft spot for it"

vi scoffs, "better than all the db5's we see people bring in."

vander laughs then, a loud, uproarious sound. you swallow over another bite of toast and egg, content to watch him and vi banter.

"yeah, but you know why people like it --"

vi sighs, her eyes rolling so hard they might fall out of their sockets as she replies, "the james bond car, yeah yeah, whatever -- still tacky."

you slice into the second egg and watch as the yolk spills molten gold over the toast.

"that reminds me though, i've gotta order the parts for the crossflow radiator --" vi says, putting the pans in the sink as well, wiping off her hands before she rounds the island to lean up against your chair. she slips an arm around your waist, resting her chin on your shoulder.

you load a bite of toast with egg and yolk, sprinkle the top with salt and pepper, holding it out for her to eat. she leans forward, mouth open as you feed the bite to her.

she groans around the bite, nodding appreciatively, even as you reach out to swipe a bite of yolk from the corner of her lip, popping your thumb into your mouth with an indulgent smile.

"'ow'dyou know i'd like more yolk than egg?" she asks, turning to pin you with a look.

you flash her a cheeky grin.

"lucky guess," you parrot her words back at her, setting down your fork.

across the island, vander watches the pair of you with soft eyes and a knowing smile.

"right, well -- i've gotta get to the bar. your uncle silco'll be mad if i --" he breaks off, running a hand through his hair.

vi waves him off, "go, we've got it here."

"text benzo if you need help with the parts --"

"yeah, yeah -- he already sent me the link for where to order the parts," vi answers.

vander chuckles, nodding. he reaches over the island with a large hand.

"it was lovely to meet you," he says, taking your hand and shaking it firmly; his palm is warm and callused, and you feel yourself sinking into the solidness of his touch even as he pulls away.

"keep an eye on 'er for me, wouldjya?" he says, winking, jerking his chin towards vi. you giggle, nodding your head.

"sure, i'll try."

"and you make sure to treat her and her car well, y'got that?" he turns his gaze towards vi, who blushes, a scowl knitting her brows as she sighs.

"what'dyou think i'm trying to do -- geez --" she huffs.

vander laughs, a big, booming, belly-full sound.

"that's my girl," he says, flashing you and vi one more wink before ducking out the garage door.

vi sighs, "sorry, i know he can be a lot..."

you smile, shaking your head, "he reminds me of you."

vi's cheeks darken as she looks you over, her eyes startlingly bright in the mid-morning light, her hair a blaze of pink as the sunrise paints her shades of orange and gold.

"he -- he's a good dad..." vi says, finally, her voice a bit rough.

you nod, dabbing at your lips with a napkin.

"he is. and you're a good daughter."

vi swallows, tugging you towards her till she's slotted between your legs. you, poised on the edge of the bar stool, your arms looped around her shoulders, her palms laid flat against your thighs, inching up beneath the hem of her jogging shorts.

"y'know sweets, you can't just say shit like that to me --" she murmurs, leaning in just close enough to ghost her words along your lips.

"and not expect me to do something about it..."

your breath hitches, a delicious, gasping sound even as vi digs her nose into the hollow of your throat with a thick groan, pressing her lips to your collarbones.

"v-vi -- the dishes --" you hiss, but vi's already pulling you forward, hoisting you over her hips and carrying you towards the stairs back up to her room, her fingers digging into the meat of your ass as she kicks open her door and lets it slam shut behind her.

"the dishes..." she says, her voice breathy as she sets you down on her bed and crawls over your body, the shape of her caging you beneath her.

she leans down to trail her mouth along the bend of your neck, humming against your skin --

"... will still be there later."

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luvlyfandoms · 3 months ago

Note

Chishiya, Banda, Niragi, Arisu's reaction to "fuck me dumb"

Chishiya

• “is that what you really want? hm?” he asks with a sly grin on his face

• “I think you need to beg a little harder than that”

• “alright, you asked for it”

• when he finally gives in…

• holds your arms behind your back at such an angle that you feel like your sockets will dislocate while he’s fucking you

• ignores your cries

• “shhh, you asked for this”

Niragi

• “you don’t have to tell me twice”

• “I knew you’d come around”

• holds a gun to your head if you misbehave

• pins you to the bed and pounds you with your legs over his shoulders, head tossed back and eyes shut in pleasure

• a mixture of moans, groans, and growls escape his lips

• holds you down so you can’t move

• you’re sure you’ll have bruises the next morning

Banda

• it makes him chuckle when you start begging for him to manhandle you

• will snatch you up by your hair and drag you to your knees in front of him

• “look at me”

• slaps you as hard as he can

• lays you on your side and folds your legs up so he can get as deep as possible while choking you out and dancing his knife around your bare skin

Arisu

• “I bet you’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

• “you’re gonna take what I give you”

• sits on the edge of the bed and makes you ride him

• soon he’s got his hand around your throat and he’s thrusting up into you as hard as he possibly can while you cry out and try to hide your face on his shoulder

• he doesn’t let you

• “ah ah ah, you wanted this. so take it”

• pinches your nipples harshly and chuckles at your reaction

#niragi alice in borderland #chishiya alice in borderland #alice in borderland #niragi #niragi x reader #niragi suguru #aib niragi #chishiya shuntaro #chishiya x reader #banda #banda sunato #arisu ryohei

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smokescreenimusprime · 5 months ago

Text

not my usual but it was too perfect to pass up and the idea was NOT leaving my head. Decided to write a snippet for @keferon's IMMACULATE Mecha Pilot Jazz AU, though apologies if the charactization is a lil funky, this is my first time writing either of these characters and double apologies for the undoubted slew of grammar and spelling errors

but that aside, I hope you enjoy :)

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Is It Self Sacrifice If It's Not Really You?

Despite the cacophany of the battlefield, Prowl's scream cut through it with with the ease of a freshly sharped blade through flesh and found it's home nestled into Jazz's ears.

He barely had a second to look up, hardly more than a glance, but it was all he needed to make out familiar white and black.

A Quintesson, one of the smaller but more freaky looking ones, was looming over his collapsed frame. He was pinned, his back to solid rocky walls and the Quint at his front, jamming it's tentacles into every crack of his armour they could.

He was putting up one hell of a fight, but something was wrong.

"PROWL!" he shouted, shifting his weight in preperation to bolt. "HOLD ON, I'M COMMIN-"

But the screech of the Quintesson he was currently grappling with forcefully stole his attention back, barely any warning given before it's gaping maw latched onto his mech's forearm.

It pulled, joints and plates creaking with the strain but still holding strong. It shook it's head and Jazz brought a hand up to brace against the outside of the monster, if only to stop the arm from being completely ripped out of the socket. He landed a few solid kick as it lifted him off the ground, but it's movements were still largey effortless, like his frame weighed as much as a tin can.

Prowl screamed again. This time it was louder.

Against all common (sane) sense, Jazz looked away from his enemy and toward Prowl

Some of his external plating was damaged, gouges in messy circle patterns with rivulets of blue energon sluggishly bleeding out. He seemed to be smoking too, thin curls of smoke wafting off his cables. His eyes were flickering wildly, something Jazz had grown to associate with too much damage and too little power.

All of the damage paled in comparison to where Jazz's focus was.

Now, Jazz didn't know how these guys had their mechs built, but they could hold up to some serious punishment. Their engineers seemed to keep an even more meticulous eye on any damage, and Prowler and the other's all had frames clealy meant to last.

But they were all still vulnerable at their cores.

And the Quintesson's tentacles, sparking with a terrifying yellow and red electricity, were pulling and prying right at the plating above that core.

It was starting to show some give too, a testimate to the true strength of the offending monster. Chest plating, no matter the make, didn't come off easily, intent to protect the most vulnerable parts of a pilot.

The electricity was already frying his frame, if it got a straight shot of that to his chest-

Jazz needed to do something.

But what, what could he do, whatever it was it needed to be quick, he didn't have time to finish off this Quintesson, there wasn't time for finesse, he just needed to go to help to F I G H T -

Jazz readjusted the braced positioning of his legs, thanking for what was probably the thousandth time the engineers who'd made the adjustment to give him more flexibility and agility, and brought his free arm high above his head.

And brought it down.

His trapped arm creaked, the plating denting and squealing as the metal controted, sparks going flying and red error messages flashing in his vision.

He did it again.

And again.

He made sure to keep his blows aimed at preciscely where he knew it was weakest and made sure to push with his legs as hard as he could, swaying side to side and focing the joint to bend in ways it had never been meant to. His movements became a dance to the orchestra of cables snapping and metal ripping and electricity cracking and his arm b r e a k i n g , the dance growing faster and more determined the louder the music played.

It felt like eternity, and the phantom sensation was disorienting. There was no pain, only uncomfortable pressure that built up and up and up, perfectly in time with the warning messages he forcefully dismissed. It was far from pleasant, but it was nothing compared to the cold burning terrified angry fight flight save him running full blast in his brain.

And with one final crack akin to lightning, he was free.

It was the furthest thing from a clean break, and to his mild surprise it didn't break at the elbow but rather a bit above it. In the second of freefall he had, he couldn't help but admire the shredded stump and mourn how he knew Ratchet was going to have his head for all the extra work.

He hit the ground in a roll and popped up running, stumbling and nearly falling face first into alien dirt at the sudden uneven weight distribution but he simply let his partial fall carry him forward until he was sprinting full speed.

With his remaining hand he grabbed the Quintesson and pulled, not letting go until it wasn't tearing into Prowl's front and instead embedded several feet in the ground. He dashed, not giving it even a moment, standing tall in front of Prowl.

The Quint got back up, enraged screeches and chitters coming out of it's mouth.

"Back off," Jazz growled back.

The Quintesson attacked, and everything became the hyperaware blur combat always became.

Dodge, dodge, punch, dodge, kick, kick, punch, dodge, jump, kick jump-

One of it's tentacles latched right onto the open stump and set a wave of electricity in.

His mech's vision went bright white, sparks exploding out even inside his cockpit and the smell of burning metal filling his nose. All the protective insulation was made useless from the direct route into the mech's systems.

Jazz jerked his arm stump back and headbutted it.

He got a tentacle to the face for his troubles, grabbers squeezing and cracking the visor. He planted his feet, one on solid ground the other on the slack of the tentacle, and pulled as hard as he could.

A decent chunk of the face came left it, not deep enough to affect any systems or his vision anymore than it was already damaged, but enough that it certainly wasn't pretty.

He kept more distance after that. Wouldn't do any good for him or Prowler if he got fried too. But the Quintesson was desperate, like a cornered animal, grabbing and clawing at anything it could gets it's tentacles on. The same gouges Prowl had began to litter his own armour as it kept making grabs, and the beastie even managing to get a few more much briefer electrical surges in.

It was obvious only one of them was going to walk away from this fight, and Jazz was not going to let it be the Quint. Prowl would kill him if he did

Finally he managed to get in a lucky shot, albeit at the cost of his feet. The Quintesson tried to get in a bite like it friend had, only to be met with the full force of Jazz's feet pressing them apart.

The teeth and other horrors might've torn through his feet but dammit if it wasn't satisfying to hear the crack as its jaw snapped and the body went limp.

The battle was still going on around them, but it was starting to wind down. A trio of bots had even started attacking the one Jazz had left behind.

The immediate area was clear, and there were more than enough bots he could shout out to for backup if he needed it.

"Prowler, you okay?" he said, though he noticed his voice had a bit of static lacing it. Maybe getting his face ripped off did more damage than he thought, or it could be lingering damage from the electricity. "Sorry it took me so long to come getcha, talk, dark and bitey kept me a bit occupied."

He wiggled his stump with a chuckle, leaning in closer. Kneeling down was difficult with the leaking hydraulic fluid and Quintesson salivia making it hard to get a solid grip, but with the current state of his visor he didn't want to risk missing anything on Prowl. To his relief, despite the extensive denting and electrical burns, Prowl's chest was thankfully uncompromised. Hopefully his mech was insulated

The electricity seemed to have done a number on his connection to the head though, the eyes were still glitching wildly and his normally expressive face seemed stuck.

"J-Jazz..." Prowl stuttered, and Jazz found himself frowning. Maybe Prowl got a bit more banged up on the inside than he thought. "You- your-"

His eyes were flickering wildly about Jazz's mech, and he could practically hear his friend's battle computer crunching away.

"Ah, don't worry bout that," he rapping his mech's chest with a fist. "This old frame's gone through worse. Nothing delicate got smashed, and I've barely got a scratch on me. Ratchet'll have me right as rain before you know it, so don't worry your pretty little head one bit."

"Speaking of, I'm gonna go find 'im," he stood back up, looking around the battlefield. "The fight's pretty much over, and I'm not sure if it's a great idea for you to be moving after all that zappy nonsense. Just sit tight and-"

"No!"

Jazz startled a bit at the sudden shout, looking back down at Prowl. The other man's mech suddenly lunged up, sitting straight and looking at him with wide eyes.

"Prowler? Is somethin wrong?"

"I will contact Ratchet," he says in a rush. "A comm message will be more efficient than searching on foot, not to mention I'll be able to tell him what to prepare for,"

Jazz raised a brow.

"Go right ahead, Prowl," he chirped despite his suspicion. He was fairly certain Prowl was hiding something from him, but prying would just make him clamp down tighter.

Prowl didn't seem like the sort to hide things from medics but...

He sat his mech down and leaned back against the wall. "You don't mind if I wait with ya, do you?"

Just to be safe.

Despite his initial assumptions, Prowl actually seemed to relax at his suggestion.

"Not at all."

#jazz: can't let prowl pull a sneaky on the medics >:/#prowl actively having a heart attack: IF I LET THIS MECH OUT OF MY SIGHT THERE IS A VERY NON ZERO CHANCE HE KEELS OVER FROM HIS INJURIES #this was fun :>#god I love these two dumbasses and this entire au #transformers #continuity soup #jazz #prowl #mecha pilot jazz au #kd writes

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missaengg · 6 months ago

Text

Beg For Me

Day 19 of Kinktober: Visions of Temptation hosted by @xxsycamore found here Featuring: Love and Deepspace | Rafayel x f!reader Tags: mdni, smut, begging, oral sex, orgasm denial, restraints/light bondage, dom reader, sub Rafayel Prompts: Begging | “I thought this is what you wanted?” A/N: Didn't think I'd get around to this today, but I somehow managed to pull this out of my ass. Warning, this has not been edited, apologies for any errors! ao3 link here.

Rafayel was sinfully groaning, a delectable red flush glowing on his soft, supple cheeks. He trembled, the tongue running up his shaft having him pull at the Evol-blocking handcuffs restraining him to the headboard of his plush, luxurious bed.

“Cutie, I need to… I need to…” He moaned pathetically, as you swirled your tongue on just the tip of his swollen cock. “Let me finish inside of you.”

You sucked up, and he slipped out of your mouth with a resounding ‘pop’. “You forgot the magic word,” you tutted, wrinkles forming between your brows.

“Please… please let me finish inside of you.”

The ache he felt was clear in the breathy timbre of his whining mewl. Pursing your lips, you feigned being deep in thought, the vision of Rafayel splayed on his bed just too enticing to stop.

“But darling… I thought this is what you wanted?”

This was true. Just last week, Rafayel had discovered that your handcuffs blocked the wearer’s Evol, and he had insisted that you use it sometime in bed with him, though you were sure he meant using it on you, not on him.

“On you! Not–” Rafayel’s breath hitched as you took him in your mouth again. “Not to torture… hah… torture me!”

You gave his tiny slit a sultry lick, tasting the hint of his salty pre-cum still leaking despite your endless teasing. “Hm… naughty.”

“Baby… baby, please, it’s been like an hour…” Rafayel looked at you imploringly, his puppy dog, purple eyes pleading with you to end his agonizing frustration. “Please… cutie… I’ll do anything, anything… just a taste.”

You wickedly grinned, nibbling up his shaft while your hand rubbed circles on his raw, overstimulated tip. “Anything?”

“Anything!” A shudder ran through Rafayel’s body when he felt your teeth very lightly grazing where he was especially tender. “Let me fuck you, please.”

You sank your teeth into him, just enough to send a jolt of electrifying pain up his back. “Language, Raf.”

Rafayel growled, the full extent of his pent-up frustration rumbling through his throat, a feral, desperate demonstration of his displeasure. He violently bucked his hips into your mouth, hitting the back of your throat and causing you to gag.

You sat back on your heels, the sudden departure of your mouth leaving Rafayel to whimper in agony. You tsked, slowly shaking your head back and forth.

“Bad, bad boy.”

With a dangerous, cheeky, taunting smile, you pulled down your underwear, making sure you trailed your fingers along your legs as you removed the flimsy piece of fabric, delighting in the way Rafayel’s eyes bulged out of their sockets as your glistening cunt came into view.

“Yes… yes, cutie, just a… a taste,” Rafayel croaked, practically drooling as his eyes took in the scrumptious meal before him.

“Just a taste,” you purred, and sunk down onto his twitching cock, all the way down until he was fully buried within your folds. “You like that?”

Rafayel eagerly nodded, closing his eyes and groaning as your walls enveloped him in their warm embrace. “Yes, baby… ngh… you feel, feel so good.”

“Hm… it’s too bad I have to punish you for choking me with your filthy cock.”

You had to suppress the rising giggle tickling your throat, the sight of Rafayel’s eyes snapping open in fear too adorable.

“No, baby, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it,” Rafayel babbled. “Please don’t punish me, I’ll do anything, anything you want, just please don’t torture me anymore.”

With a hum, you reached for your phone on the nightstand and sat upright, keeping Rafayel pinned between your legs.

“Baby… cutie…” Rafayel’s cock twitched furiously.

You ignored him, focusing only on the phone in your hand.

“Babyyyyy, you’re so mean.”

You shook your head, giving him that look, the one where you meant business, quieting Rafayel’s protests to a feeble whimper.

“No, darling. I want you to lay there and think about what you did, and maybe, maybe I’ll let you play with me.”

It took everything in you not to burst out laughing at the absolutely devastated look that crossed Rafayel’s face.

#missaengg writes #kinktober #kinktober 2024 #visions of temptation 2024 #rafayel x you #rafayel x reader #rafayel smut #love and deepspace smut #lnds smut #lads smut #lads rafayel #love and deepspace rafayel #rafayel love and deepspace #rafayel #lnds rafayel #lnds #lads #love and deepspace

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000000-000000-000000 · 10 days ago

Note

I read your Toby fic and ABSOLUTELY LOVED IT! So I humbly ask if you could feed my deranged monster loving brain with some Eyeless jack filth.

I trust your amazing brain to think of something. But if I could request something... maybe it involves tongue and teeth :3

omg thank u anon 🫶🏻🫶🏻 i freaked when i saw this bc i was already halfway into writing this already, i call that divine timing :p i hope u likey <3

Peace Offering (Eyeless Jack x Reader)

ej x f!reader nsfw — CW biting, blood play, size diff, oral (f receiving), breeding, a bit of spit, a bit of choking, overall monster fuckery

word count 4.5k

you're a cannibal too!! no graphic descriptions of cannibalism in this one but just a heads-up lol. also, mating szn!!

The hall outside Jack's door smells like antiseptic and viscera. Different from the stench of death and rotting wood permeating the rest of the mansion. You’ve been standing in front of the door for a full minute, fist raised, frozen in decision paralysis.

You don’t even know Jack. Not once spoke to him, or even held eye contact. But you supposed that was the default.

You just knew that he’s tall. That he doesn’t speak. That he moves like smoke and shadow and his claws gleam like scalpels in dim light. You’ve passed him a few times in the mansion—once in the kitchen, where you stood still as a statue holding a raw pancreas while he silently poured black coffee. Once in the hall, where his shoulder nearly brushed yours and you were sure you were going to die—and then he just kept walking.

You’ve only been here a week. The others mostly leave you alone, but you can feel the eyes. You smell like flesh and dirt and bad decisions. They know what you are. You’re a cannibal, same as Jack. But Jack’s been here longer. He’s not just another creep—he’s the fucking cannibal. And you’re afraid he’s gonna see you as competition.

Or worse, an intruder.

You’re not here to offer a sacrifice for his mercy. You’re here to be normal. To knock on the door like a grown-ass human being and say, “Hey, just wanted to introduce myself, I’m new, I eat people too but I’m not gonna step on your turf, all good?”

Y’know. Professional courtesy.

You don’t even know if he cares, but it's been gnawing at you all week. He hasn’t looked twice at you, hasn’t said a single word—but that just makes it worse. You can’t tell if he’s ignoring you, tolerating you, or planning to dissect you in your sleep. So you’re gonna clear the air.

You take a deep breath, straighten your spine, and knock.

You expect silence.

You expect slow, heavy footsteps.

You expect him to open the door with that same blank stillness that makes your stomach twist—stoic, unreadable, the kind of presence that makes you feel like prey even when you’re not. You hope you're not, at least.

You do not expect it to swing open less than a second later like he was already there.

And you definitely don’t expect what’s behind it.

Jack stands in the doorway, bare-chested and heaving. His presence hits you like a freight train—six foot seven of solid, silent terror. Black, scarred, empty sockets that somehow still manage to pin you in place. His skin has a weird, almost too-warm flush to it—gray tinged with red, like stone under heat. There’s a light sheen of sweat across his collarbones. His hair is damp. His claws twitch, flexing in and out of fists at his sides. And worst of all—he stinks.

Not like gore. Not like antiseptic. Not like you. Not bad, but strong.

He smells like sex, like pure pheromones. Like heat and musk and ozone and blood and salt, like ancient stone cracking under pressure, like the kind of sex that leaves bite marks and bruises in the shape of hands.

“...Hi,” you say, weakly.

His head tilts. His nostrils flare.

“New proxy,” he says. Voice like gravel, deeper than you imagined. Rough.

“Y-Yeah. I—I just came to say, like, I’m not here to… step on your toes or anything? I know we’re both, uh. Y’know.” You gesture vaguely, too nervous to say the word cannibal for some reason. “I don’t want beef. Pun not intended.” You're rambling. God, shut up.

Jack exhales through his nose. It almost sounds like a laugh. Almost.

“I know.”

His voice is slow. Controlled. Too controlled. Like every word has to push through clenched teeth.

You shift in place. “You, uh… okay, man?”

He closes his eyes—what’s left of them, anyway. His claws clench into his fists, then relax.

“No.”

Oh.

You blink. “...Do you want me to go?”

“No.”

Your brain makes a soft popping noise.

You try to take a step back anyway, but one of his claws lifts, just slightly—not threatening, more like a halt gesture.

“It’s mating season.”

You freeze.

“I—what the fuck.”

Jack doesn’t move closer. Doesn’t leer. Doesn’t do anything—he just stands there, flushed and feverish and breathing like he ran a marathon. But the air around him feels hot, electric, heavy. You feel it in your stomach, in your teeth.

“I’m not going to touch you,” he says, jaw tight. “I have control.”

You believe him. That’s somehow worse.

Your voice comes out hoarse. “I didn’t know. I—fuck. I wouldn’t have come here if I knew.”

“I know.” Another breath. “You couldn’t have known.”

He leans a shoulder against the doorframe like his legs are tired—his body vibrating with the effort of staying still.

“I can smell you,” he murmurs. “You’re afraid.”

“Yeah. A little.”

“I’m not a threat.”

You almost laugh. “You sure look like one.”

That earns a sound from him—low and dry, almost a chuckle. Barely. Not really. “I won’t hurt you. But if you’re going to stand there, I need you to say what you came to say.”

Right. Words. You had a plan.

“I’m not competition,” you blurt. “I’m not here to challenge you, I don’t even want the woods, I’m barely domesticated enough to live in a house, and I’m scared shitless of you, so please don’t eat me.”

Silence.

Then, deadpan: “You’re not very threatening.”

You look up sharply. He’s watching you, what’s left of his expression unreadable—but his mouth twitches, the ghost of a smile. Still tense. Still fevered.

Like a beast in a cage, pacing internally, chained by sheer willpower and nothing else.

You manage a laugh. Weak. Awkward. “Right. Okay. I’ll just—go.”

His fingers twitch. You take a step back.

And then, his voice—low, raw, almost slurred with restraint:

“If you don't have a peace offering, you could always offer yourself.”

It hits you like a bullet.

You freeze. Blink. Your brain throws up the blue screen of death.

Your eyes snap to his. Not that there’s much to see—but something moves in his face, a flicker of realization. Like his mouth acted before his brain.

Jack’s jaw tightens, and for a moment, the air feels razor sharp.

Then:

“...That was a joke.”

Bullshit.

You don’t say anything. Can’t. You just stare, pulse hammering, skin prickling. He’s not smiling. He’s not leering. But something about the way he said it—low, even, matter-of-fact—is so much worse. Like it wasn’t a threat. Like it wasn’t even fantasy. Just a passing suggestion. A biological truth.

Your breath catches. You definitely didn’t mean to look at him the way you did—like you’re not just scared, but curious. Like some lizard part of your brain is weighing it—like it wants to know what kind of creature could say something that filthy with a face so blank.

And he smells it.

Your arousal isn't loud. It's not dramatic. But it’s there. A flash of curiosity through the panic, an ugly little throb in the base of your spine, something your body registered before your brain could veto it.

His body goes still.

He doesn’t move. Doesn’t blink.

But his chest rises, slow and deep, as he inhales—and you see it hit him like a goddamn punch. His throat bobs. His claws twitch. His stance shifts just barely forward, toward you.

“…Fuck,” he mutters.

Your heart seizes.

“Okay, what the fuck was that—”

“I told you,” he says—voice low, rough, tight. “It’s mating season.”

“That didn’t sound like a seasonal allergy just now, man, you sounded like you were about to—”

“I wasn’t.”

“You aren’t now?”

“I’m not going to touch you.”

He says it like a promise. Not to you—to himself.

You swallow thickly.

Jack’s chest is still heaving, slow and deliberate, like he’s meditating through it. You don’t miss the flex of his fingers. The faint tremble in his shoulders. And worst of all, the fact that he’s still staring, like you’re a threat, or prey, or a goddamn solution.

“…Didn’t mean to say that,” he mutters.

“You did,” you say quietly.

“Didn’t mean for you to hear it.”

You should leave.

You know that. Every cell in your body is screaming it—but your feet don’t move. You don’t want to die or find out what happens if you don't die. But your mind is tangled, twisted, caught somewhere between fear and intrigue.

“...You’re still standing there,” he says.

You nod. “So are you.”

Silence, another breath.

“You should leave.”

You nod again. “I know.”

Neither of you moves.

And in that moment, everything is suspended—your pulse, the air, time itself. Jack stares at you like he’s memorizing you. Every molecule of scent, every twitch of your breath. Like he’s holding himself together cell by cell.

“You’re not a threat,” he says finally. Quietly. “But you are dangerous.”

“To you?”

His mouth twitches. That almost-smile again.

“To me,” he echoes, “and to yourself.”

You swallow. “...You’d still fuck me, though.”

That catches him.

Something flickers under his skin, his jaw flexing tight as he stares at you like he didn’t just imagine it—but heard it, loud and clear, from the source. He doesn’t answer right away.

But when he does, it’s barely a whisper.

“...If you asked.”

You almost shudder.

The weight of those three words drops into your spine like a stone. Not if he wanted to. Not if he could. If you asked.

You don’t know how the words come out of your mouth. You don’t even feel your lips move. It’s like something else in you—deeper, hungrier—took the wheel and said,

“I’d ask.”

His breath stops.

The silence that follows is indecent. Your ears ring with it. You watch Jack go still, not like a man—like a beast feeling the air shift before a quake. His head tilts the slightest bit down, his nostrils flare again, and his lips part like he’s tasting your fucking soul in the air.

Then, slowly, like he's afraid to break the spell, he steps aside.

You cross the threshold.

And you're immediately hit with a wall of scent so thick and delicious it curls into your lungs and lingers like smoke. Blood, coppery and sharp, but not stale—fresh enough to hum beneath your skin. A faint iron tang, the subtle, meaty funk of consumed organs. And underneath all of it, him—that deep, heavy, impossibly male scent that makes your legs tremble and your mouth go dry.

The door closes behind you with a click.

Jack doesn’t move right away.

He just looks at you. The tension in his body is so sharp it practically hums, his shoulders rigid, hands flexed and trembling at his sides, claws curling like he’s trying to crush the air. His chest rises in slow, shallow gulps, like every breath is work.

Then he speaks.

Voice low. Graveled. Careful.

“One last warning.”

You don’t answer. Not out loud. Your gaze stays locked on him. He watches your throat move as you swallow.

“You don’t know what this is,” he says, and for the first time, it’s not calm. It’s strained. “This isn’t like fucking some guy in the mansion. I'm not human. It hurts. It's violent. I’ll lose control for hours. It’ll leave marks. You’ll feel it for days. Maybe longer.”

He’s not boasting. Not posturing. There’s no lust-drunk swagger here, no smirk, no game. Just raw, desperate honesty, dragging out of him like it physically hurts to say it. And despite every survival instinct shrieking in your bones, you stay.

You nod. “I know,” you whisper.

“You don’t.”

“I don’t care.”

You mean it. You don't know why, but you mean it. Even if your hands are shaking. Even if you feel like you might pass out from sheer adrenaline. You don't know if it’s insanity or instinct or just some deep, terrifying desire—but something in you wants this. Wants him. Like an offering to a god that never learned how to be merciful.

Jack takes one step toward you.

Then another.

You don’t flinch.

His fingers reach out—hesitate—then curl just barely beneath your chin, tilting your face up. His touch is hot, impossibly warm for someone who looks like a walking corpse, and his claws tremble where they rest near your throat. You can tell he’s holding back by the millimeter. That he could rip through your skin without trying.

His voice drops lower, almost broken.

“I won’t take what isn’t offered,” he murmurs. “Say it. Or walk away.”

You stare up at him, skin buzzing, breath shallow.

“…I want you."

Jack’s restraint snaps.

Not in some sudden, ravaging burst—but like a beast unchained. Controlled, deliberate, inevitable.

His lips barely graze yours. Just hovering.

“…Fuck,” he growls.

And he lunges. Not with speed—just momentum. Gravity. A controlled collapse.

His mouth crashes onto yours, and you feel the teeth first—sharp, pointed, dragging—but not biting. Not yet. They graze. They threaten. They tease the edge of pain. And then his tongue follows.

It drags over your lips. Slips past your teeth. You can’t breathe, can’t think, and then he bites—your lower lip, a clean tear—and you gasp into him.

The taste of your own blood floods your mouth, and he moans. Deep, equal parts strained and relieved, like you just fed him.

His hand fists in your hair. The other splays across your lower back, dragging you flush to his chest. You can feel every taut, strained inch of him. Every hard line.

Then his tongue pushes back into your mouth, thick and intrusive, and it carries your blood with it, making you taste it. Your whimper tastes even sweeter in his mouth.

His claws rake lightly up your back—not enough to slice, just enough to make your skin scream. And then one palm cups your ass, the other grips your waist, and he groans like your body just did something to him.

“You taste good,” he pants into your neck. “You smell like—fuck, you don’t even know—”

He licks a stripe up your throat. You feel his tongue flick over a pulse point, but you swear you feel something more there. You don't have time to dwell on it, but your pulse is fluttering now.

His teeth nip your skin. Break it. Blood wells. He laps it up, groaning again—feral.

Hands roam. Bold. Bruising. Claiming. Gripping you like you’re already his. His mouth stays locked on your throat, jaw, shoulder—biting, licking, drinking. And for a moment, he pulls back just to look at you, lips wet with your blood.

“I can't go easy on you,” he repeats, voice barely held together. “I’m not human. I can’t do human.”

You don’t answer. You grab his face and kiss him again, and he breaks. Moaning into your mouth, hands everywhere, blood smeared between you, tongue tangling with yours like he’s trying to devour you from the inside out.

You’re still reeling from the kiss—bloody, deep, consuming—when his mouth moves back to your throat.

This time, the teeth sink deeper.

No more testing, no more gentle nips. He bites, hard enough that your knees almost give. Sharp canines sink into the soft muscle where your shoulder meets your neck, and you yelp—half pain, half fucked-up thrill—and he moans around the wound like it’s the sweetest fucking thing he’s ever tasted.

"That's better," he growls into your skin, lapping at the blood. “That’s what I wanted.”

Your clothes don’t stand a fucking chance.

His claws catch your shirt and rip. Fabric tears like wet paper. He’s not even trying to be careful. Just shreds it off, mouth biting its way down your chest, your ribs, your stomach—leaving bruises, welts, more shallow punctures. Blood blooms in hot trails, and he follows every drop with his tongue.

His hands—huge, clawed—grip your hips hard enough to bruise as he throws you onto the bed, clothes half-hanging off, breath caught in your throat.

You're still catching up, still blinking at him towering at the foot of the bed, shirtless, panting like he ran miles, sweat slick on his chest and broad shoulders, your blood staining his lips, and then he's on his knees.

You expect his tongue again.

You expect a tongue.

When his mouth drops between your legs and his face splits open wider than it has any right to, you barely have time to process it—because you see them.

Three tongues. Long, thick, slick with saliva. Moving independently. And they descend on you, no warning, no tease. He doesn't have time for that shit.

Just devastation.

He shoves your thighs apart and dives in, tongues moving like they’ve been starving for this—two spreading you open, one plunging deep and curling inside your cunt, fucking you while he holds you up like you weigh nothing.

You scream. Not just moan—scream. Because it’s too much. Wet, hot, writhing pressure on every nerve all at once, like his mouth was built to destroy you.

"What the fuck—" you yelp, hands flying to his hair, half prying him off, half pulling him deeper like you can't take it but want to.

And he growls into you. Deep, low, inhuman. The sound vibrates against your pussy, against your fucking soul, a guttural snarl like some wild thing burying its face in a fresh kill.

He's jacking himself off the entire time—fist pumping slowly, strangling, pre-cum drooling from the head of his cock, but not enough. Not nearly enough. This isn't for pleasure. It's just to keep from exploding.

His claws dig into your thighs as he lifts your hips off the bed like you're weightless, mouth working between your legs, tongues licking, twisting, ravaging.

Your back arches, you can’t breathe. You’re crying out his name—just guttural syllables and sobs—because it’s so much. So wet. So loud. Slurping, snarling, every movement feral and unrelenting.

When one of his tongues flicks over your clit and the others deepen, you lose it. Your orgasm hits like a brick wall, blinding and sudden, and you keen again—legs shaking, thighs clamping around his head, and he growls louder.

Moans.

Keeps fucking eating you.

Keeps jacking himself harder, like your orgasm made him hungry.

Because it did.

He breaks off only when you're twitching, overstimulated, barely conscious—and even then, he doesn’t speak. He just pants against your thigh, teeth latched to the soft skin there like a leech, blood and slick and saliva smeared across his mouth, stroking himself like he’s about to burst.

You're still trembling when he yanks your hips down the bed, claws dragging over your skin like he doesn’t even realize he’s touching you that hard. There's leftover blood, slick, spit, and he licks it off his palm like he can't help himself, before bracing himself over you—and that's when you see his cock.

Big is an understatement. It's obscene.

Long, thick, heavy, and curved just enough to make your insides clench on instinct. The skin is flushed dark, veins bulging, and it looks angry—like it’s been aching, throbbing, desperate for this for years.

You flinch when he lines up, heart thudding, and he hears it.

You expect another warning, maybe some stoic restraint. But no.

Jack leans in—panting, black sockets narrowed like every second he's not bruising your cervix is fucking strenuous—and spits in your mouth.

Heavy, hot, thick—your blood, his saliva, the mess of you—and your mouth is too open in shock to stop it.

"Swallow," he growls.

You do.

And that’s when he thrusts in, like the spit was only a diversion, like a doctor distracting a patient with small talk before driving a needle into their arm.

No teasing. No easing you into it. Just shoves the whole thick length of himself inside you in one brutal, unforgiving motion.

It's so fucking vicious that your scream catches in your throat, strangled and pained.

The stretch burns, splits you open, the pain folding over into something too deep and too hot to name. And he doesn’t fucking stop—doesn’t give you time to breathe before he’s got both your legs bent and pinned to your chest, folding you into a goddamn pretzel, pushing deeper.

His strength is terrifying.

He holds you down like nothing. Just one hand pinning your thigh against you, the other wrapping tight around your throat, thumb under your chin to tilt your head back, making you look at him—if you could see anything past the blur of tears and fucked-out haze.

His hips snap forward and you wail.

“Ohh, fuck,” Jack groans, voice thick, rough, feral, pace already too fast, too hard, too deep. “Tight little thing. Been starving for this. So—fucking—tight.”

The praise isn’t sweet. It’s raw. Like he’s talking to himself more than you. Like every inch of him is relieved to finally, finally bury himself in something hot and wet and clenching and have the weight of this blistering heat lifted off his shoulders.

“Feel that?” he grits through his teeth, pounding into you so hard the bed rattles beneath you. “Sucking me in—like you were made for it.”

You whimper, mouth open, barely forming words. His grip on your throat tightens—not enough to stop your air, just enough to control it.

“You’re gonna take every fucking inch,” he growls. “Take what I give you. Take—all of it."

His pace turns brutal. Every thrust punches a sound out of you—raw, helpless cries drowned out by the wet slap of skin, your blood and slick smearing between your bodies.

And still—he holds you there. Bent. Exposed. Pinned.

You can’t move. Can’t run. Can’t breathe. Just heave and wheeze out broken wails while he fucks into you like his sole purpose in life is to breed.

And when he shifts his angle, grinding deep, dragging against the spot inside you that makes your vision white out, you cum with a strangled sob. Instantly, without as much as a heads-up from your pussy.

He feels it.

“Fuck—there it is,” he snarls, still rutting into you, relentless. “That’s it, yeah— So fucking good for me. Just like that—fuck yes—just like that.”

The overstimulation has you clawing at his arms, legs shaking, breath catching on every moan that tears out of you, but all Jack does is growl. Low and heavy in your ear, dark praise melting into the crackling static of pure need.

"God, keep fucking clenching," he pants, voice thick with hunger, hips slamming against yours with brutal rhythm. "Tight little cunt. Gonna make me lose my fucking mind."

You’re whimpering—high and broken—when he finally pulls out with a wet pop that leaves your pussy gaping, twitching around nothing.

Before you can even think of begging for a break, you're flipped onto your stomach, your face barely sinking into his sheets before he slams back in from behind with a ragged, guttural snarl. You cry out, hands scrambling for grip, spine arched in a shiver of pain and heat as he bottoms out in one vicious thrust.

The stretch is horrible all over again. You're soaked, so open and used already, and still—he splits you wider.

Jack’s claws dig into the soft meat of your ass as he grabs two full handfuls, dragging you back into every sharp, hungry thrust. The sound is feral—skin clapping, bedsprings shrieking, his lupine growls vibrating in your chest.

Then his hand finds your hair.

He wraps it around his fist like a rope and yanks your head back, arching your spine and baring your throat. His pace never falters—he fucks you like he needs it to survive, like your body was made to take this. (It wasn't.)

You barely get a breath before his grip changes again—his arm slides around your neck, elbow snug against your throat, and he pulls you upright into him. Your back arches tight like a drawn bow, head lolling on his shoulder as he bends down to snarl into your ear.

The other hand slides over your stomach, down low, low—palming the spot where his cock bulges inside you, visible and so fucking deep.

“Feel that?” Jack breathes, breath hot and ragged. “That’s how fucking deep you're taking me. That's how deep you're gonna take my seed."

You can’t even speak. Just shudder and whimper, stuffed so full it aches deep in your belly. The arm around your neck tightens just enough to make you dizzy—floaty, pliant, mind slipping out of your control.

Right where your shoulder meets your neck, his teeth sink in deep again, sharp teeth and longer canines piercing skin like butter. You yelp, back arching harder, but he just holds you there, locked tight in his grip as blood wells up and rolls down your chest. His tongue drags over it, lapping it up greedily, moaning like your essence is just fueling Chernabog inside him. To breed, to fuck, to relieve, to destroy.

“Fuck... fuuuck me,” he snarls, every word a tremor. “Gonna fucking fill you— Breed this tight pussy, shit—"

He slams into you. Once. Twice. A third time—

And then he groans, loud and shaking, as he cums.

It’s hot. Endless. You can feel it pulse through his cock, feel the flood of it painting your insides, thick and heavy and too much. His hips don’t stop moving—slow now, dragging through your overstretched cunt just to make sure none of it goes to waste.

"Yeah—yes, yes—fuck," he rasps, breath stuttering as he presses in deep, so deep you feel it in your lungs. "Finally. Finally... fuck, take it—"

Like he's been waiting for this. Like he’s been going rabid over the idea of this for months and now he’s got a warm, bleeding body to fill instead of his own fucking fist.

You feel so full that it would make you nauseous if you weren't on the brink of passing out.

Jack's still holding you there. Still buried deep, arms locked tight, cock twitching as the last of it seeps out of him.

“Mine now,” he murmurs against your ear, voice wrecked. “You feel that?”

You do. You just can't fucking answer, only managing a strangled little whine, more wounded animal than human.

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