being your master's pretty lil puppy girl that gets absolutely spoiled. he lets you sleep in his bed, kisses you softly, hand feeds you treats, shows you to his friends who kiss and coo and grope you in ways that make you giggle and glimmer under the attention-
but none of them ever touch your pussy.
"you're right-" his friend says as he tweaks your nipple. "she is perfect."
before you can glow under the compliment, your owner speaks up.
"Hopefully, the stud finds her perfect, too."
You glance between them, lip pouted out extra far. "what's a stud?"
'someone thats gonna make you feel really good-" the friend says, hand traveling down to your lower belly. "and give you a bunch of presents right in here."
thinking about Ghost and his thick waist, and how your knees never touch the mattress or the floor when you ride him.
and it's a little embarrassing how clumsy he, his size, makes you, too; turning you into just this whining, sniffling mess that can't even ride him properly. something he's all too eager to mock you about. gripping the back of your thighs as you whimper into his neck, grunting about how he thought you were gonna take him for a ride, pup before he slaps your ass, and leans back, arms folded behind his head, nodding at you to go on. use him to get off. you can do that much, can't you?
but no. you can't find your balance. your thighs are already aching from being spread so wide over the absurd width of his waist. all you can do is press your palms into the softness of his belly, feeling the solid muscle beneath, and desperately grind against him until he feels merciful enough to take over. all game gone because the man is just too goddamn big for you to do anything except cling to him until he's finished with you—conscious or not.
(and, of course, cancel all immediate plans the next day because you started cramping the moment he knocked your knees apart and forced his thick hips between them)
guys i love drooling when he drools cause he’s so faded from finally being able to hit raw, when he’s kissing you deep and pushing his spit into your mouth with his tongue :( when he spits on your clit just to lick it up or circle it around your entrance i love
Bookworm. Ghost x Reader.
cw: cyberstalking, abrupt ending
a/n: to borrow a phrase from early, a brain hairball.
Simon hates being idle.
It leaves him feeling off, a knife left out in the rain. Rusting creeping along the edges, the weight uneven when you finally take it back in hand. Twice the effort to get it in killing shape again. That’s what leave does to him. Makes his skin crawl with the need to move, to do something. And this bloody physio appointment won’t scratch that itch.
His shoulder’s still not quite right. Stiff in the mornings and aching when the weather turns. Makes it impossible to train without spending forty-five to an hour on the floor, sweating and cursing. He’s been putting off the appointments, avoiding them outright. Gritting his teeth through it, but Price caught wind of it. Told him if he skipped another one, he’d drag Simon there himself.
So, here he is.
The café’s nothing special. Small, tucked away on a street where the foot traffic’s mostly locals. The kind of place you’d miss if you weren’t looking. He likes that about it. Quiet. Nobody’s looking at him twice with his cap pulled low.
He’s been here long enough for his coffee to go lukewarm, sitting near the window where the glass fogs from the chill outside. He watches people come and go, eyes drifting over faces without really focusing.
He should have arranged a bird to pass the week with. Would’ve been easier than sitting here or his miserable flat, waiting out the dead time between appointments. Someone warm and agreeable, eager to make use of him. Let him press the ache from his bones in a way that physio never will. Too late for that now. All he’s got is a bitter, room temp coffee and a stiff shoulder.
It’s almost a mercy, then, cosmic correction, for the universe to drop a little puzzle in his lap.
You sit down at the table next to him, barely sparing him a glance. You’re juggling too much—bag over your shoulder, laptop under one arm, and a mug clutched in hand. You drop everything down with more force than necessary, letting out a quiet sigh. Frustrated.
He steals a look while you set up.
You’re pretty. Ink smudges on your fingers, a tiny dot near your temple where you must’ve rubbed it without thinking. Something floral drifts off you—shampoo, maybe. Or perfume. Light and girlish. And the way your jeans hug your thighs. Hard not to look at.
He can’t help himself. Pure instinct, cataloging details and slotting them together.
Laptop stickers. A small cluster of them, nothing flashy. One’s a crest for a university. Another’s from a fabric store. A couple related to books.
Jumper. Grey, oversized. Worn. The same logo as the sticker, but with the department embroidered over your chest.
Notebook and book. Neat handwriting, margins filled with cramped notes, and arrows pointing to even more ideas. Dozens of colorful tabs stick out from the novel’s pages.
Dozens of messages. Simon stares at your phone on the edge of the table, catching the preview of the latest. Something about a meeting with your advisor and a graduate dissertation.
Your laptop opens to a wall of text. Hundreds of lines.
Student.
Easy to piece together.
You’re chewing on the inside of your cheek as you type, bottom lip caught between your teeth. Worrying it. Something stirs in his chest at the peek of your tongue.
No ring.
He scans your hands. No marks where one might’ve been.
Single. Unmarried, at least.
No tattoos. No visible scars. Nails painted, but barely. The polish is chipped, wearing away at the edges. You don’t bother keeping up with it. Too broke? Too busy?
Another vibration. A second message lights up your phone. This time, he sees more of it: Shift swap. Someone asking if you can cover tonight.
Works, then.
He swipes his thumb over his phone, scrolling absently, pretending, but his mind sticks fast. The facts are lining up, falling into place.
Grad student. Literature, most likely. Working on a dissertation. Works at least part-time to make ends meet. You keep squinting at your screen and notes. Maybe you need glasses or contacts.
Simon’s eyes drop to your jumper again.
Department of English and Creative Writing.
His mind is already filling in the gaps. The stickers on your laptop. The books. How you’re typing. Focused, wholly absorbed, with no awareness of the world around you. Lost in your own head, a few steps removed from reality.
Little bookworm.
He already knows your school and department. The name of your advisor who’s texted you. From there, it’s easy.
He tilts his phone away, though no one is paying attention to him. Especially not you. A quick search brings up the department’s website, a list of faculty, graduate students, and recent publications. He scrolls until—
A university blog post with a photo. Blurry, the lighting awful, but it’s you. The shape of your mouth, your face. Hands frozen in a fidget. Your name, attached to a paper. Has a nice ring to it.
Simon should stop here. You seem like a nice girl with a normal future and it’d be a shame to get in the way of that. But he doesn’t.
If anything, this is a good lesson for you to learn. To not be so permissive with your information and belongings. You shouldn’t leave your life so open, with easy-to-follow breadcrumbs. Who knows what might end up at your door, hungry for more?
Besides, if he didn’t do it, someone else would.
Your name leads to a personal website, then to social media, where your life is laid out in squares. Windows into the future. Bookstores, classes, afternoon tea. Friends. Flatmates. A black cat, curled up in a patch of sunlight on a lumpy sofa.
He taps through them, one by one, mapping out your world, mentally marking places, people. Figuring out precisely where he’ll slot in.
The reminder for his appointment pops up, buzzing in his hand. His thumb hovers for a moment longer, then he takes a screenshot—a photo of you on holiday, lying on your belly on a beach, looking up at the camera with a soft, easy smile. A book rests open on the towel in front of you, forgotten for the moment. A generous glimpse of the tits you’re currently hiding from him. Thighs pressed together, arse dusted in sand.
His jaw flexes as he breathes out through his nose, staring hard at you from the corner of his eye.
He wants to haul you into his lap and wipe the ink from your skin with a spit-slicked thumb. Pop the button on your fly, slip his hand down, and make you explain whatever the fuck it is you study while his fingers sink into you.
Instead, he pockets his phone and stands.
Flexes his thighs, eyes drifting out the window to keep himself in check.
He’s quietly pleased when he shuffles out on the side closest to you. You shift automatically, tucking your legs, making space without thinking, without looking up.
So. You notice some things. You still won’t see him coming.
Simon’s reluctant to leave now. Not with his new itch, the burgeoning curiosity for the bookworm walking the same streets as him. But he leaves, knowing he’s gathered enough for now. Enough to find you again, to keep that little thread of connection alive. Maybe the rest of the week won’t be so dull, after all.
His shoulder twinges as he rolls it again, but the discomfort doesn’t register as bad. He’ll sort it now.
He just needs it useful enough for a bit of lifting later.
I’m at a party, and there are a bunch of people there. I’m casually hanging out but not really feeling it, I'm a little uncomfortable, so I decide to slip out the front door. Ye olde Irish exit. Now, instead of leaving quietly, I could have stood on the couch and started airing my grievances, but I didn’t. I simply left. The party continues, I'm just no longer on the guest list, and the only thing it loses is my presence.
Later a partygoer texts me, upset. They want to know why I didn’t stay, why I left without saying goodbye. I explain I was prioritizing my wellbeing. They call me a snob. I tell them I have every right to decide who I spend my time with and who I allow in my personal space, and I’m not sorry for upholding my boundaries. It isn’t about them, it’s about me and my needs. They still don’t get it.
They accuse me of shutting them out, but all I did was step away. They call me selfish. I explain that selfish would’ve been ignoring my own limits just to keep everyone else comfortable, which is exactly what they’re doing. I tell them if they ever felt the need to leave a party, I’d never coerce them into staying just because I wanted them there, and that it's always okay to walk away from an interaction, a situation, even a person, if that’s what feel is best for you. Still, they don’t understand, and still, I refuse to apologize.
I sigh and try one more time, explaining that the party didn't end because I left, it just lost something it was never owed in the first place. Me. And if that stings, it says more about their entitlement than it does about my boundaries.
something very hot about a forced kiss in the immediate vulnerability put forward and the self-assurance that no matter how much you hate the hot wet tongue licking out the inside of your mouth and no matter how badly it makes your skin crawl, you still wouldn't dare bite it and risk putting yourself in an even worse situation. just a cute arrogant way to rub it in
Going to sleep while cockwarming alien!price only to wake up hours later with stomach cramps, looking down to see a massive bulge in your abdomen thst bulges and fucking writhes around. Prices chin still hooked over your shoulder a dick still firmly inside. He chitters when you try to question him "whats wrong, love? You make such a good bearer for my clutch. Isn't that what you wanted? You asked me to breed you, remember?" He jerks his hips to jostle the eggs inside with a heart laugh, mean.
There's someone outside the spacecraft. You don't remember them being part of the crew.
Part 14
masterlist
-
It comes at you fast.
A few days too many in the brig with only Gaz for company, his comings and goings too sporadic and unpredictable for you to anticipate his arrival. You can feel the way your thoughts shift fluidly in your head. Jello sliding on a tilted plate.
Humans are social animals. You aren’t meant to be alone or confined in one place. It’s why crews for interplanetary space travel are usually larger than this. Dozens of individuals to allow for groups to form and relationships to develop, the Goldilocks zone designed to curtail infighting and ostracism.
A crew as small as yours should never have been allowed to leave Earth.
You miss noise. Traffic, coins clinking in the palm of your hand, thunder rumbling in dark clouds a mile away. You miss noise tremendously, with a ferocity that shakes you free of every other want or need. Even a tornado siren or a car racing by in the dead of night just outside your window would come as a welcome sound to your ears. But space is a cold, quiet world.
You smell something fierce by day five. It’s not pleasant going so long without a proper shower, but in fairness, nothing about this experience has been.
On the brink of a breakdown—which you can feel like a fuzzy film on your teeth begging you to run your tongue over them again and again until it’s gone—you beg Gaz to ask Graves to let you out for a shower. The hot towels that he occasionally brings are nice on your face but aren’t much help cleaning the rest of you.
“I’ll see what I can do,” Gaz says on his way out, taking your hopes with him.
And though he goes to Graves hat in hand, he comes back with a grim expression. You already know the drill. No luck breaking you out for something even as small as a shower, withholding any sense of dignity you might have formerly possessed.
You didn’t think you could hate like this. It bursts from you like an arterial spray, staining everything it touches. Bigger than yourself. Like something old and buried that you’ve only just unearthed.
“Not your fault,” you grunt, looking away.
“I’ll bring you something to wash yourself with,” he promises.
He keeps his word too. Comes back to your cell later that evening with a bucket of soapy water and a washcloth that he passes to you through the bars. He doesn’t have the code to open the cell door, so the bucket stays on his side, but it’s close enough for you to reach through and dip the washcloth in the warm water, wringing it out just a bit before staring uncertainly at him, which he takes as his cue to give you some privacy.
“Shout when you’re done and I’ll come back for it,” Gaz tells you before leaving.
Though you’ve spent almost every waking moment over the last few days alone, it’s almost strange being left by yourself after that, but you take full advantage of it.
It’s like the first rainfall after a drought, even though it’s just a drop in a bucket. You reach again and again through the bars to souse the washcloth until it comes out sopping wet, and then drag it over your skin, stripping off one layer at a time to clean as much as possible. It’s not a shower by any means, but you finally feel fresh. A little of your dignity restored.
“Thank you,” you tell him when he comes back, so earnestly that you can feel tears prickle at the backs of your eyes. It’s humiliating. You’re supposed to be stronger than this. One week in the hole shouldn’t be enough to break you.
“I’m sorry I couldn’t do more,” Gaz says apologetically.
You shake your head. “No. This was enough.”
He leaves to empty the bucket—the water a shade darker, and though that vaguely embarrasses you, Gaz doesn’t bring it up—and comes back with a hot meal on a tray. Your stomach gurgles in response, reminding you of how long it’s been since you last ate.
A comfortable silence settles in the room while you eat. Sometimes you wish he’d bring something to eat as well so you wouldn’t feel like an animal scarfing down food under the table while the adults talked above you. It’d almost be nice to hear someone other than you chewing.
He seems content just to watch you though. Knowing that he isn’t human makes it less unnerving somehow, like of course an alien from another galaxy would want to observe the habits of another species. You have a similar intellectual curiosity about him, though it’s been shelved recently in favour of more pressing concerns.
There’s a question you want to ask but you don’t know if you have the courage to bring the words to your lips. It sits like an attendant knight on its haunches at the back of your throat and waits for your tongue to bade it forward, sword resting across its thighs.
“Did you do it?”
It comes out raspy, half-choked. From the other side of the bars, Gaz tilts his head, scrutinizing you.
He must not understand. “Do what?”
“Did you do something to Hadir? Is that why he died?”
Gaz pauses at that, his expression almost regretful. “…I’m not sure. Some things aren’t my doing…intentionally.”
You wonder if it’s really as simple as that. If some creatures can’t help the destruction they leave in their wake. Humans don’t apologize to the bugs under their shoes after all. But how is the bug supposed to feel about that?
“You said we aren’t the first humans you’ve come across.”
His teeth are perfectly white when he smiles. “That’s right.”
“What about them? Did anything like this ever happen with them?”
You should know by now that there are some questions that shouldn’t be asked. Not because they are unanswerable, but because they have an answer.
Looking at him now, you can tell that this is one of those very questions.
Though nothing about Gaz physically changes, something ripples across his face and suddenly you can see it, an impermeable layer that peels back for just a second to let you get a look underneath it.
The heartwood of him is vast. Unknowable. Even as you gaze into it, it doesn’t quite make sense, but you can see it like a far off star, winking at you from times long gone.
You’ve grown too comfortable with the humanness of his appearance, let it stop you from comprehending that his nature vastly outpaces your own. There’s so much more that you want to ask and so much less that you think you ought to know. How old is he? Where does he come from? Is he carbon-based? Is he really what he appears or is this form merely designed to appeal to your senses, like the light on the end of an anglerfish?
“It’s probably time for me to head back,” Gaz says, breaking the silence, and abruptly cutting you off from the glimpse of himself that he allowed you to see.
He gestures for you to slide your old tray through the small gap under the bars. When you do, he takes it from you and stands up, towering over your sitting form, only the barred door separating you.
“I’ll be back soon,” he promises, then takes his leave.
And unlike Nikolai, you believe him.
The days seem to go by but you’re not sure.
Seem being the operative word. Though your meals seem to come at regularly scheduled times and the lights on the other side of the door dim and brighten at a regular cadence, time almost feels—
dilated somehow.
Thoughts corrugating. Thoughts scattering in the windlessness.
The gaps between your thoughts—
widening
and changing course.
You know this is the bellyaching of a hurt animal gnawing off its own leg to escape the thing trapping it.
But you know you won’t stop until the trap is off.
“What are they going to do to me?” you ask Gaz when something like a week has passed.
It’s still hard to tell. Time doesn’t do well in space, much less in the brig of a spacecraft with no zeitgebers to help adjust your internal clock. Boredom makes time seem elastic, stretches it out beyond what you could imagine it lasting.
He chews on his answer. “…I’m not sure.”
“They haven’t told you? Or said anything around you?”
“They’ve said some things.”
“Like what?”
“I’m not sure it’s worth repeating. I’ve been trying to sway them in a more productive direction.”
“Gaz, please, can you just—” You exhale forcefully and pinch your eyes shut. “Can you just be honest with me?”
“Love, it won’t help. Just let me handle it.”
“…Are they going to send me back home?”
The possibility crossed your mind the first day they threw you in the brig, but with the ship equipped with only two escape pods capable of supporting three individuals each, it seemed less than likely that they’d waste one on you.
His brows tighten and he shakes his head. “Your commander vetoed that idea. He didn’t want to…waste the resource.”
“Are they considering making me redundant?”
The euphemism is easier than just saying it outright. There are provisions for it, after all. Precedent. The laws are different out in space, in no man’s land. Interplanetary journeys can be long, after all, and treacherous, and it isn’t always advisable that resources be wasted on crew members that have proven themselves a danger to the mission and the ship.
It also isn’t necessary that a ship return with all of its crew.
Gaz seems reluctant to answer now, staring off into the far corner of your cell instead of meeting your eyes. A few seconds pass before he says anything.
“…They’ve floated the idea by.”
“Oh,” you can’t help but whimper, squeezing your fists over your eyes.
Someone reaches into your chest and turns the dial of your terror up so high that you nearly forget to breathe.
And why wouldn’t they discuss it? Haven’t you felt it this whole time, even before Gaz showed up and shook it free from its high perch? Haven’t you felt a certain coldness from them, a certain distance? An eager willingness to misunderstand you? A blatant mistrust hidden under layers of icy professionalism and excuses?
“So they’re thinking about killing me,” you whisper, your voice uncomfortably loud and wet with your tears, the metal walls making it almost echo in the small room. “Is that it?”
Gaz stays quiet, his inability to contradict your words implicit in his silence. Maybe. You’re not sure what exactly it means—if he knows that for sure or if whatever he is lacks the instinct to offer words of comfort.
“They won’t hurt you. I promise you,” he reassures you, an undertone of steel in his voice.
“You already said that you can’t change their minds.”
“I said I couldn’t force them to, not that I couldn’t persuade them with logic.”
“You know how they’d do it, right?” you ask, ignoring his words.
“Love,” he says, exasperated, but you cut him off before he can reassure you again that he won’t let anything happen to you.
“They’ll toss me out into space.” You saw your bottom lip between your teeth. “It would be painless and quick at least. You lose consciousness before anything happens. Then ebullism occurs—the blood in your body boils and then your whole body swells up. You die not long after that. Just a few minutes. But at least you aren’t conscious for it. It’s probably relatively painless, but at the end of the day who knows because everyone who’s gone through has, you know…”
At least there’s that. It’s a small comfort that you won’t suffer if they do take that route. A few seconds of panic and then nothing. Practically humane. It’s not what you want, but few if any get the option of choosing their end. You should be grateful that yours will at least be painless.
Even though you really—
(pleasenopleasenopleasenopleaseno)
—really don’t want to die.
It seems naive to hope that Graves will change his mind. The fact that they’ve considered it at all speaks volumes. Maybe if Nikolai had kept his promise and come back, you could’ve counted on him to speak up in your defense, but his absence suggests otherwise.
Eventually, you have no choice but to ask.
“Are you helping me because you put me in this position?”
The question sits like a nettle embedded in the soft inner flesh of your cheek, digging in painfully until you manage to get it out.
“I’m helping you because you’re different from the rest of them,” he murmurs, staring unblinkingly into your eyes.
Sometimes you think he’s the sun until you stand in his gaze and feel your own centre of gravity drawing him in.
“No, I’m not,” you say, trying to brush off his words.
“Yes, you are.” His rebuttal comes firm and swift, the insistence catching you off guard. “I gave the others ample time and reason to come to the same conclusion as you and none of them did. Instead, they turned on you—one of their own. It’s not right for one to give up on their own kind so easily. Do you know how long it’s been since I’ve come across one of mine?”
“How long?”
Gaz stares at you for a second before curling his hand around one of the bars, long fingers easily overlapping, and leaning forward.
“I have been very, very lonely,” he says, making a point to stretch out his words, “for a very, very long time.”
It hurts to hear that. Loneliness you understand.
“You wanted to know why I came to you? To your ship?” he asks, changing the subject slightly.
“What—you weren’t just waiting around for someone to come by and pick you up?”
Gaz shrugs. “Not entirely. To some degree, yes, but it wasn’t just a random happenstance. I knew your ship was in the vicinity for a while before I decided to make myself known.”
“Then why?”
His smile is so gentle that it almost breaks your heart and you don’t know why. “Because of you. When I saw you.”
Everything from your neck down goes hot. You can’t put into words how that revelation makes you feel—the thought of him drifting undetected through space, like a rogue planet untethered from its star, only for something to suddenly pull him in.
“Where are you from?” you ask, dry mouthed. Parched for more.
“Far from here. You wouldn’t recognize it even if I showed you it. It’s not on any map you’ve ever seen.”
The thought takes your breath away. Every time you think you’ve come to terms with the vastness of the universe, something happens that pulls the rug out from under you. Gaz’s words reshuffle the pieces in your head until you can almost see it, a far corner of the observable universe tucked into itself like origami, vast clouds of gas and dust incubating protostars, even the dust older than anything your side of the universe has ever seen, so old that it brushes the edge of observability, may very well even now be traversing over that boundary so that one day, even with the speed of light, you will never be able to see it again.
“But that’s not my home anymore.”
“Oh,” you breathe, stupefied.
“I came aboard because of you.” You can barely process that; you’ve never been enough to keep anyone anywhere. “Don’t—you can’t see it because there’s only so much you can see. But I know because I feel it.”
Reaching through the bars of the cell door, you hold out your hand. Gaz takes it without hesitation, tucking your fingers into the warmth of his palm. You take it on faith that what you’re touching is real.
It’s on the tip of your tongue to ask him if it is when he suddenly rises to his feet, pulling you up with him. It’s so intimate standing like that, face to face but for the barred wall separating the two of you.
He pushes your hand back through the bars of the cell, his hand following yours until half of his arm has passed through the gap between the bars. When it gets to his upper arm, you assume it’ll stop there, his bicep bigger than the gap, but then it just—passes through, unimpeded by the metal bars or the molecules packed tight together to form the structure of the cell. All you can do is stare dumbstruck as Gaz’s body separates and comes back together, nausea at the sight of his skin reconstructing itself making your stomach turn.
“Oh.” You sound stupid, but it’s hard to sound right in the head when everything you’ve ever held to be true has suddenly shown itself to be not. “Did you even need me to let you in?”
The glint in his eye is mischievous. “I enjoyed our conversations.”
It’s as good an answer as you know you’ll get from him.
You swallow. “Can you get me out then?”
“…What would you do if I did?”
That makes you pause. “What do you mean?”
“You know they won’t just let you roam free, even if I let you out. And if I help you out, things might only get worse for you.”
You see it now: the rapidly decreasing number of choices before you. Each fork in the road gradually rewilding, too treacherous to pass through without dire consequences. Soon, there will only be one way through.
“So what am I supposed to do?” you whisper.
He steps closer to you until you swear you can feel the heat radiating off his body. Dark, unfathomably deep eyes stare back into yours, and it is so easy to get lost in them.
Infinite possibilities for what your life could’ve looked like, but it was always going to lead here—to him.
“Trust me,” Gaz whispers, breath fanning your face. “Let me get you out.”
Resisting his pull suddenly seems pointless. Why retreat from something that wants you so bad? You can only chase shadows for so long before the sun draws your gaze up to it.
Your lips come together like pieces of the same puzzle; fluidly, sinuously. Senses clogged with him—his essence, his taste, his smell. You keep chasing after it, following his lips when he briefly pulls away, and whining into his mouth until you can feel his smile against your lips and his warm hand cradling the back of your head, tilting it to deepen the kiss.
Longing has made your body heavy, dripping with it. His kiss drains you of so much energy that you can’t help but sag against him, limp body pliant in his hands.
“Take them off,” you rasp, pulling on the shirt of his uniform, the fabric wrinkling under your fingers.
“Love—” Gaz laughs, breathless.
“Take them off.”
The rush of endorphins you get from finally having agency for once is unmatched. You’re the one making the demands for a change, the one telling someone what to do.
He one-hands his shirt over his head in the way that men do, so casually human that you briefly forget that he isn’t. Your lungs collapse under the force of your exhale when you remember that.
“Is it real?” you ask.
“Is what real?”
“All of this—” you elaborate, gesturing up and down at his body. “—you. Are you built physically like us or am I looking at something…” You don’t know how to finish your sentence; you’re not sure if it even has an end to it.
Gaz contemplates your question as if it merits thought. As if he weren’t standing before you naked as any man you’ve seen before. As if his stomach didn’t concave into a bellybutton and his legs weren’t covered in a fine layer of dark hair and the darkness didn’t pool around his bare feet, toes as similar as your own. As if there weren’t a thatch of dark hair tapering down to his groin and the inguinal ligament and abdominis muscle of an Adonis belt angling down towards it as well.
“What you’re experiencing is real,” he says, taking your hands in his so you can feel their warmth. “This is all real. But there’s more to me than what you’re able to perceive.”
The thought makes your head spin.
“That doesn’t mean it isn’t real though,” he stresses, drawing your attention back to his face.
“It’s just…not the whole picture.”
“No.”
“Is it even possible to…I don’t know—see you in full? Like what you really are?”
He steps in close enough that you have to look up to meet his eyes. Warm hands slide up the small of your back and draw you into a warm chest, and even fully clothed against his nude form, you’ve never felt so exposed.
“Isn’t this enough?”
In another time, you might’ve said no, but if saying no now means turning Gaz away, you don’t think innate curiosity can stand toe to toe with the need for his company. The need for him, period.
“You’re sure this is what you want?” Gaz asks.
You pause for a second, taking everything in.
All you know is that you want to be as close to him as physically possible. You want to press your nose to his chest and inhale until the world around you melts into the one you miss. Fresh baked bread and succotash; hot days in the company of dragonflies and frogs croaking in the marshes; rain drizzling over the half-baked dirt; rabbits eating clover under the shade of a wheelbarrow.
“Yes.”
You reach down and pull your shirt over your head, Gaz’s hands immediately going for the waistband of your pants.
Clothes disappear in a flurry, discarded near the bars of the cell while the two of you retreat farther into its depths. Your lips keep colliding in midair, panting breaths flowing into each other’s mouths when you’re drawn back together again, magnets of opposite polarity. Breathing becomes almost inconsequential.
Biology aside, what you have in abundance is chemistry. A shudder ripples through you as he gently but firmly drags you down to the floor, goosebumps flaring up your arms and legs when the bare flesh of your back touches the cold metal, the hair on your neck standing on end. Your fingers tremble back up to his face to pull him down for another kiss that dissolves on your tongue like shock rocks fizzling down your throat.
He swallows you up all at once. Compatible anatomy or not, when Gaz pulls your legs apart and settles between them, the heavy shaft that he lines up with your entrance feels very, very real. So real that one push in knocks the breath from your lungs and displaces every thought in your head.
“Oh God,” you whimper, squeezing your eyes shut.
The first thrust barely takes, inner muscles too unyielding, but when he draws his hips back and presses in again, you split around him a little more generously. It still makes you grunt and clench your teeth together, digging your nails into his traps to ground yourself.
“Is that what you want?” he asks.
You pry your eyelids open, squinting up at him. “Huh?”
“Is that what you want? A god?”
He’s asking you something that you don’t have the capacity to understand or answer.
“What?” you ask, desperately trying to make sense of his words until he fits both hands into the crooks of your knees and nearly bends you in half trying to get deeper into you, and your thoughts scatter again like birds—you can even see them bursting from the trees and taking off into the blue sky that gradually bleeds back into the darkness surrounding you.
And then just his face, your own North Star.
“Yeah,” Gaz rasps. “I think that’s what you want.”
It’s a wonder no one’s heard you and come running because you are not quiet. The door to the brig must be hermetically sealed though because despite the volume of your moans, no one comes by to check on you. Even when he nearly flattens himself over you and fits his hands around your head to keep you from hitting the wall behind you, locking you in place against his body, and your yowls go from embarrassingly loud to deafening, the door doesn’t move.
“Have you—ah, ah, shit, uhnf—” you pant, the pleasure so good that you have to fight the urge to push him off of you. “—done this?”
“What?” Gaz grunts through clenched teeth, wide nostrils flaring.
“Done this before?”
He stares down at you in disbelief. “Have I done this before?” he repeats, snapping his hips forward and grinning when you gasp. “You’re asking a being from another world if they’ve ever done this before? Sex with a human?”
“But you—” you know what you’re doing, you don’t finish.
“‘Course I know what I’m doing,” he murmurs under his breath like he read your mind, sweat dripping from his hairline onto your face. You blink when a bead of sweat hits your eye. “Like I don’t know exactly what you want.”
And suddenly it doesn’t feel like fucking. It feels like you’re being given something, like something is passing through you and leaving a little bit of itself behind.
“No one else can take care of you like I can.”
A smooth thumb passes over your clit like a comet, circling and circling, dancing with gravity’s pull until it dips too close and suddenly you—
“There’s nothing else for me but you. No one else.”
(back arching, spine breaking, sweat pooling and dripping and squelching when your chests rub together, big hands bracket the top of your head, and you are so close, so close, so close)
—suddenly you—
(ohgodohgodohgodohgod)
—suddenly you—
Wet lips so flush to your ear that his tongue flicks into the shell. “You want something from God? You come to me.”
stuck on the thought of sneaking under Price's desk to toy with him before his meeting. nuzzling your cheek over his clothed cock like a kitten when it starts, his hand coming down to grip your jaw tight as you slowly draw his cock out, listening to them huff about reports and expenditures. his fingers digging into your cheek—a warning, maybe. but the flex of his thumb makes you wonder if it's a silent better finish what you started, love.
biting your lip when he keeps shifting in his chair as you stroke him to stifle a giggle when they ask him what's wrong, John? you seem a bit out of it. head dizzy with power when he's forced to cover up grunts by coughing into his fist to keep from getting caught as you slowly lick him from base to tip. somethin' in this throat, he rasps, frayed. voice stripped: all gravel.
it's meant to be just a tease. flexing some of the power you don't have over him in a space where he can't make a scene. can't sink his nicotine-stained fingers into your nape and keep you on your knees between his thighs for hours. punishment and submission sometimes weaved around each other until you can't tell them apart. but as you pull back, intending on waiting the meeting out with your mouth pressed to his knee, your plan backfires tremendously when he catches you before you can scoot to the back.
he grabs you by the scruff of your neck and makes you take every fat, thickening inch of him down your throat. holding your face down while you whimper and gag around him, hardly able to breathe as he takes over. unable to anything but take as he spreads his thighs wider, forcing you closer and his cock deeper—
and above the desk, the only sign anything is amiss is the whitening his knuckles when he pinches his cigar, and the flush peaking out under his beard. none of them aware that between his knocked apart knees, he's squeezing your nose shut in warning when you make too much noise. grunting about checks and balances while he forcing you to take him deeper and deeper, using your mouth until you're messy—sticky with spit and sweat. Fucking into your throat until he starts to come, the end, you think—only for him pull off and finish all over your face.
and you—slightly dazed, a little hypoxic—are forced to kneel there between his legs as he slowly, carefully gathers it all up with his thumb before pushing it into your mouth, glancing down at you as they drone on about something you can't even hear anymore through the roaring in your ears. words muddled under the heavy pants as he scrapes every drop off your cheeks and pushes it between your sticky, sore lips. his cute little pet staring up at him with swollen, teary eyes; mouth sticky and covered in spit, but opening so prettily for him when he drags his thumb closer.
the people in the room with him easily buy into the lie that he's under the weather—hayfever, and all—as he lights up another cigar, and leans back in his chair, trying not to laugh at them when they whine about reports, totally ignorant to the fact that just beneath his desk, you're licking the come off his fingers.
The irony of this new breed of self-righteous AI hunters on AO3 is that they're all just copy and pasting peoples fics into AI detectors, which are all operated by AI and therefore THEY are feeding people's work into the algorithm without their consent and in some cases no doubt circumventing the locks people put on to avoid getting scraped...
Don't copy and paste anyone's AO3 work into third party websites, you're not the good guys in this situation?
John Price finds out you use OpenAI, and he. is. furious.
Gaz, Soap, they're not online enough to really understand, but Price... he's furious. Betrayed. If you wanted somebody to feed you misinformation and tell you what to do, he's right there, always a text away, so close he could guide your hand on how to do whatever your stupid little mind thinks is right.
Instead, you're asking a fucking robot.
He's mad, to say the least, when he discovers that you've got the OpenAI app on your phone. The look he gives you isn't just annoyed - it's betrayed, the sort of look you give when somebody has wronged you.
Because you have. You've wronged him. You relied on somebody else to guide you, to tell you how to think, to act, to be, as if he isn't supposed to be the shepherd leading the blind.
Disgusting.
His hand fits neatly around your throat as he holds the phone up, eyes narrowed in disgust, one thick thigh sandwiched between your own.
"Could make you stupid enough without any fucking tech," he spits, voice full of acid, condescension. "Y'wanted someone t'think for you, honey, m'right here, wastin' water when y'could've been followin' my orders no problem. Stupid."
It doesn't take long for him to wrestle you onto the bed, shucking your panties down to bare your ass. Spanks it red, makes you start over every time you lose count until you've damn near hit fifty before he finally, finally feeds you his cock.
Makes you apologize as he notches the head against your weeping cunt, coos that he'll help you. You're clearly sick, unwell, a dopamine addict that he can fix all on his own. You need guidance, and he'll help you, give you that, grunting promises and curses with every battering thrust against your cervix.
(makes you promise that you'll delete your account, that you'll listen to him, that you'll only ever listen to him, him, him)
When he finally cums, he stays inside of you, cooing softly that you'll have a lot of work to do before he forgives you for this betrayal. That you'll spend plenty of hours with his cock inside of you, learning how to be bored again. He'll help you get over your addiction, honey, don't you worry.
turnnoffyourmind
jacobvanloon
vaporwave
theartofmadeline
tangentwithtanner
dededos
kianamaiart
baratheonpilled
