˚₊‧꒰ა 𝓘𝓷𝓪𝓻𝓪 ໒꒱ ‧₊˚

۶ৎ ݁˖23 ִֶָ. ..𓂃 ࣪ ִֶָ.⋆♱་༘࿐ 𐙚⋆°🦌.𝓝𝓢𝓦ℱ ࣪˖⋆♡ -.𓏲 ๋࣭ ࣪ ˖ —`. ִֶָ꒰18+ 𝓜𝓓𝓝𝓘 ꒱

[doe-eyeddoll]

‧ ︵‿₊୨୧₊‿︵ ‧ ˚ ₊ ♱.

꒰ 𝓐 𝓓𝓞𝓛𝓛𝓢 𝓓𝓘𝓐𝓡𝓨 ꒱

︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶

‎ ‎‎

‎𓆱 ˚₊‧꒰ა ‎ ‎ 𝓘𝓷𝓪𝓻𝓪 ‎ ‎ ໒꒱ ‧₊˚‎ 𓆱

﹉﹉﹉﹉﹉୨♡୧﹉﹉﹉﹉﹉

୨୧┇23 ⸝⸝.ᐟ⋆ 𝓼𝓱𝓮/𝓱𝓮𝓻 ⚤ ₊˚ ˖ʚଓ𝓣 𝓰𝓲𝓻𝓵 ꕤ‧₊˚.

୨୧┇𝓘𝓝𝓕𝓙 ‧₊˚. 𝓓𝓸𝓵𝓵 𝓼𝓾𝓫 ꫂ᭪ ⸝⸝.ᐟ⋆ 𝓬𝓱𝓻𝓸𝓷𝓲𝓬 𝔂𝓮𝓪𝓻𝓷𝓮𝓻

୨୧┇18+ 𝓜𝓓𝓝𝓘 𐔌˙.𖤝𝓛𝓮𝔀𝓭 𝓶𝓾𝓼𝓲𝓷𝓰𝓼.^ྀི

﹉﹉﹉﹉﹉୨♡୧﹉﹉﹉﹉﹉

⋆.𐙚🦌𝓑𝓨𝓕 જ⁀➴ ๋࣭  ˖ 𝓓𝓝𝓘 ⊹₊⋆ 🩷ྀི

﹉﹉﹉﹉﹉୨♡୧﹉﹉﹉﹉﹉

⋆｡‧˚ʚ𝓣𝓖 | 𝓣𝓦ɞ˚‧｡⋆

╭⋆ 𖤝 ───♬ [𝓖𝓲𝓫𝓼𝓸𝓷 𝓖𝓲𝓻𝓵] ♬ ─── 𖤝 ⋆╮

0:54 ─⚬───────5:42

╰⋆ 𝜗ৎ ─── ⇄ ◁ ❚❚ ▷ ↻ ─── 𝜗ৎ ⋆╯

⋆.𐙚𝓓𝓲𝓿𝓲𝓭𝓮𝓻𝓼જ⁀➴ @v6que @dollywons @pepsipoet

[luvrdollz]

thigh riding - captain!price

- nsfw . thigh riding . pet names

“so good baby keep going” he praises, taking a drag out of his cigar as you whimper and roll your bare cunt on his thigh, clutching his biceps for dear life as one of his large hands guide your hips

your moans grow louder as you find the perfect angle clit trobbing against the steady pressure. your head tips back, hair falling across your face as price’s hand comes up to cover your mouth

“shhh we don’t want the others to hear, huh doll?” you muffle between his fingers, squeezing your eyes shut as he flexes his muscles beneath you, making your cunt leak more slick onto his trousers

“such a fuckin little mess” he mutters, circling his thumb over your clit adding more stimulation. your cheeks burn from humiliation as you bit your lower lip trying not to make a sound. he presses harder on your clit whilst you rut faster and deeper on his thigh, making your stomach tighten

“price no mor-” you cry out, a low whine tearing its way out of your throat as you release yourself on him. he drags you over his thigh, forcing you to ride the aftershocks as you shudder and shake in his grip, over sensitivity burning through your core. your forehead drops to his shoulder, breath stuttering as the last waves of pleasure leave your body. he slaps your swollen pussy in satisfaction, your body jolting from the contact as you curl into him like a kitten

“that’s my girl” he whispers forcing your chin up, meeting your dazed eyes with his. his lips curl into a smug filthy grin seeing your teary eyes and the prominent wet stain imprinted on his trousers

“lunch times over doll. back out you go” he murmurs after a while, leaving sloppy kisses on your neck as you gather your senses and come back to reality. he leans back on his chair, puffing his cigar as you wince and scramble around trying to make it seem you didn’t ride your boyfriends thigh in the middle of work

this might have been your favourite lunch break yet

[seraphiism]

arthur morgan doesn't know tenderness like he should. he's never been meant for the good, outlaw by blood and soul, always on the run, always somewhere not meant for the belonging. but you are made of everything tender, of everything good, of everything meant for the sunlight. he doesn't understand why you'd love him-- an ugly old fool that's never done anything of worth, even if he's heard a thousand words of thanks from people all over the land.

no, he doesn't understand why you love him, but he believes it when you say you do ; some things aren't worth overthinking because he knows all roads will lead to doubt and some kind of hurt. it's only right to believe in you and your heart, always.

"what're you doin' there?"

you pause, flowers and twine in hand. it's almost funny, he thinks, the way you blink owlishly like you've almost been caught in the act. but your smile is quick to bloom and his heart is just as quick to beat faster at such a sight.

"making something, arthur." you mumble, continuing to weave the flowers in the twine as he settles next to you on the worn blanket near the lake.

"i see that, sugar."

you throw him a faint smile at his cheeky tone, patting his knee for only a moment before focusing once more. you're not talking like you normally do, not asking about his day or what he did ; instead, your attention remains captive to the flower crown, gaze occasionally flickering to his warm one. he doesn't bother you. he doesn't speak, either, just watches in mild fascination at your dexterity.

and once it's done? it's a beautiful thing-- just like you, he thinks. but he doesn't get to say that, interrupted by the way your eyes seem to light up as you place it on his head.

"...perfect!" you exclaim proudly, letting out a sigh of relief. "almost thought your head might be too big, arthur."

he blinks once, twice, tries to register your actions and words before letting out a laugh.

"sayin' my head is too big?"

"sometimes." you answer, grinning as he pulls you into his lap. "good thing this fits you just right."

another laugh as he shakes his head, arm wrapping around your waist as he peppers your face with kisses.

"...you're mighty lucky i love you, y'know that?"

"mm. mighty lucky, indeed. i happen to love you too, mr. morgan."

[roziemutin]

18+ | your captain takes advantage of you while you assemble his gun. Blindfolded

The blindfold was tight. Darkness swallowed everything except the sound of his voice and the cool metal parts scattered around the desk.

“Start with the recoil spring, love” Captain Price said, guiding her hand to the parts. “Feel for it.”

Your fingers trembled as you reached out blindly, fingers trembling as he keeps running lazy strokes. He slides your panties down with a hook of his thumb. Every piece you get right, he praises you in that low, devastating voice.

“Good girl… that’s it. Just like that…” he rewards you by pressing the head of his cock firmer against your clit, grinding in small circles. When you fumble the barrel, trying to line it up while the pressure fogs your brain, he pulls back and gives another light smack on your ass, warm and stinging.

“Tch, pay attention, darling. You’re smarter than this. Focus for me.”

read all here.

[total-killer-brainrot]

cw fauxcest

The hotel receptionist brow pinched together as she tapped away at her little computer. Giving you and John an apologetic smile after a long moment.

"I'm so sorry. It seems the only rooms we have left are queen beds."

You were confused. Why on earth would that be an issue. That was the plan anyway.

John clapped you firmly on your shoulder. Tugging you close to his side with a grin.

"That's alright. You don't mind sharing the bed with yer dad for a few nights, do you, kid?"

It clicked all at once and you could feel your face growing hot. You couldn't possibly correct him. Especially with the receptionist now awing at the sweet relationship you had with your 'father'. So you just shook your head. Avoiding both of their eyes and gritting your teeth. John was in so much trouble.

At least he was once he finished fucking you like this.

"Yeah... don't mind sharing with yer old man..." He laughed. Tugging your hips back to him and filling you all at once. Fat cock punching so deep you felt the breath leave your lungs.

"Ahh..." Was all you could respond. Eyes rolling back into your skull. Arms giving out so your face fell into the plush pillows of your shared bed.

"Say you love sharing a bed with your dad." He growled low. Leaning over you to press against your back.

The words were heavy on your tongue. Barely able to string two thoughts together as he fucked you, let alone say them out loud.

"Da... ah..." Was all you managed.

John pressed a warm kiss to your cheek. Strong arms wrapped around you so he had the leverage to grind even deeper.

"That's alright, kid. Dad'll take care of you."

[roziemutin]

18+ / your captain takes advantage of you while you assemble his gun. blindfolded.

Outside the reinforced window, the base was a grid of sodium lights and razor wire under a moonless sky. Somewhere far off, a generator hummed like a sleeping beast. Inside, Captain sat behind the desk in the dim glow of a single, green-shaded lamp. 

He was forty-one, lean in the way only lifelong soldiers get. His uniform jacket hung open over a white undershirt stained faintly at the collar. In front of him lay the disassembled parts of his service pistol, slide, barrel, recoil spring, frame… it was still warm from the range. He liked it this way. Liked the ritual. 

He thought about her while he worked, the young sergeant with the sharp tongue and a sharper mind who’d been rotated in six months ago. Too smart for this meat grinder, too beautiful for the dust and death. She argued with him in between briefings, quoted Clausewitz then let him bend her over this very desk when the lights went out. He could still feel the heat of her cunt around him, the way she’d bitten his wrist to stay quiet while he fucked her raw and relentless, metals clinking against the wooden table. She reminded him that he was still a man under all the armour and rank.

The captain was still there and so is his gun laid on the green blotter when the knock came. Two gentle raps. Nothing like the sharp bangs of his men or the crisp efficacy of the staff officers. He didn’t answer right away, just took another sip of the bourbon, letting the burn settle, stretch. 

“Come in.”

The door opened and she slipped inside, fresh-faced even after six months of this godforsaken posting. She has that kind of sweetness that doesn’t match a uniform, soft cheeks and eyes that still looked like they believe there’s some good left in this world. A mouth that looked more like smiling than saluting. Few strands of hair that escaped the pins curled towards the back of her neck. The fatigues looked ill-fitting on her, but they couldn’t hide the soft swell of her hips or the way she walked like she would on tall grass instead of base concrete. 

“Evening, Captain,” she said, voice low and honey-warm, carrying that lilt that made each word sound like it had been dipped in sugar. She stood at a loose parade rest, hands clasped at her back, but there was nothing stiff about it. It was polite and sweet. Maybe a little nervous. Like the jasmine lotion she smuggled in her duffel. Makes him think of a civilian bed. A quiet morning.

John leaned back in his chair, studying her. “Back again, Sergeant?” The lamp caught the side of her face and for a moment she looked unreal against the drab walls and stack reports. “Those forms already sorted?”

She nodded, “They were, Captain…” she held up the thin folder like it was an offering, something precious. “didn’t want you get chewed out again over paperwork, Sir.”

He almost smiled. Instead, he gestured to the chair across from his desk. “Sit down, Sergeant. You’re not on report.”

She moved forward and perched on the edge of the seat, her knees together and hands resting in her lap, fingers twisting the edge of her uniform shirt just a little. Innocent. The kind of girl who still wrote letters home every week. But not quite. He likes this game. Likes the way she pretends to be helpful while that sly little brat peeks through. He changes his mind. “Come here.” 

She walks over slow, hips swaying just enough to be deliberate. When she reaches the desk she stops beside him, close enough that her thigh brushes his knee. He turns in the chair and suddenly his big hand is on her waist, firm, as he pulls her closer.

“You’re a terrible liar, girl.” he murmurs. “You didn’t come here for paperwork. This late.” 

Her breath catches but she does not pull away. Instead, she tilts her head, calm and dreamy, some softness in her eyes even as the discipline keeps her voice steady. “Maybe I didn’t. maybe I like watching you work. Thought you might want help, or something…”

There it is. That little brat. Not loud. Just enough to make his cock twitch in his fatigues. He gets up, he’s on her. Big hands spinning her around and bending her over the desk with a firm push with his hands on her hips. Her chest hits the wood, papers scattering, gun parts clicking. She exhales shakily. 

“Captain-“

“Quiet, darling.” His voice is low, rough, dripping with that cocky authority that makes her knees weak. He yanks her fatigues down just enough to bunch around her thighs, leaving her simple cotton panties in place. They’re already damp, a dark wet spot blooming right over her cunt. Price groans at the sight, palming his thickening cock through his own pants before he unbuckles his belt, freeing his cock- thick, heavy, veins standing out along the length.

“Look at you. So fucking sweet and already dripping for me.”  It’s half-hard, heavy, and he presses it against the fabric immediately, hot skin sliding against wet fabric, not pushing yet but rubbing. Up and down. The thick head nudging her clit on every pass.

She whimpers, hips twitching.

“Ah-ah,” he tuts, voice low and velvet-rough. One big hand lands a gentle but firm smack on her ass. “None of that. You want to help how to put my pistol back together, don’t you? You’ll help… while I use this cock on you.” 

He folds the greased cleaning cloth over her eyes and ties it tight. Darkness swallows her. All she has left is his voice, the smell of gun oil and man, and the slow, filthy grind of his thickening cock sliding over the fabric until the cotton is translucent against her folds.

“Every piece you get right, I give you more. You mess up… I stop. Understood?”

“Yes, Captain..” she breathes out, already trembling.

“Start with the recoil spring, love,” he murmurs, guiding her hand to the parts. “Feel for it.” 

She reaches out blindly, fingers trembling as he keeps rubbing long-lazy strokes. He slides her panties down with a hook of his thumb. Every piece she gets right, he praises her in that low, devastating voice. 

“Good girl… that’s it. Just like that…” he rewards her by pressing the head of his cock firmer against her clit, grinding in slow circles. When she fumbles the barrel, trying to line it up while pressure fogs her brain, he pulls back and gives another light smack on her ass, warm and stinging. 

“Tch. Pay attention, darling. You’re smarter than this. Focus for me.”

The mix of praise and gentle correction makes her throb. She’s dripping down her thighs, cunt clenching around nothing as he slides his now fully hard cock up and down her slit, teasing her entrance but never pushing in. cocky. Patient. Completely in control.

“Slide next.” He says, voice warm like smoke against her ear. He leans over, chest to back, beard brushing her neck as he guides her hands. When she clicks it into place, he groans softly. “Good fucking girl. So pretty when you listen.” 

He rewards her properly—pressing the thick head just inside her, stretching her open for a moment, then pulling back to grind along her folds again, denying her the thrust she’s aching for. 

“Last one, love. Magazine.” Do it right and I’ll let you come all over my cock like the sweet thing you are. 

Her hands are shaking badly now. She fumbles once, he tuts again- giving her ass another warm smack. Then smoothes it with his palm while he keeps that slow, torturous grind going—his heavy cock sliding through her wetness, teasing her clit until she’s whimpering. 

She finally slots the magazine home with a sharp click. 

Price doesn’t hesitate. He pushes inside her with one smooth, thick stroke, filling her completely. “That’s my good girl…” he growls, voice low and rough with praise as he starts fucking her properly—deep, steady thrusts that rock the desk. One hand reaches around to rub her clit while the other hold her hip.

“Fuck—there you go, darling.” He growls, voice low and filthy with praise. “Take it.” 

He bottoms out and she cries out, panting, clenching hard around him. He fucks her in heavy, intense strokes, the wet creamy sound of their cum coating his thick cock filling thew room, white ring building at the base of his shaft every time he pulls back, her slick dripping down his balls. The vein throbs visibly inside her as he rails her harder, one hand fisted in her hair, the other grabbing her hip. 

“That’s my good girl. Cry for me. Let me hear how much you needed this cock.” 

She is shaking, moaning, completely undone—panting broken little ah-ah-ah sounds as he fucks her through a shattering orgasm, cum coating around him even more as she squeezes and pulses around every thick inch. Price keeps going, keeps praising her sweet cunt until he finally buries himself deep and fills her with hot, heavy spurts…

[silverlullabies]

CW: predatory!Johnny, dubcon, implied noncon, dddne

Post-TBI!Johnny who turns to art to cope and convinces you to model for him because you’ve got an interesting face, hen. Interesting bones. Something in the slope of your shoulders and the set of your mouth that makes his fingers twitch for charcoal, makes him stare at you, want to see what’s buried beneath your skin.

It should make you uncomfortable

(Maybe it does. Maybe you should’ve listened to that thin little alarm trembling at the back of your skull, but hindsight has always been cruel like that, arriving only after the door has closed, after the lock has turned, after you’ve already mistaken hunger for reverence. And nobody has ever looked at you the way he’s looking now-)

Ach, dinnae look at me like that. It’s only art.

He lays it on thick-

Tells you he’s been stuck for months. That nothing’s moved him. That he’d started thinking there was something dead inside him until he saw you standing beneath the washed out lights of a corner shop, fumbling with your change.

Then there ye were.

So you agree.

Just once, you tell him. A few hours. Fully clothed.

Course, bonnie. Agrees too easily, bobbing his head, boyish grin sliding onto his face to ease your nerves. Whatever makes ye comfortable.

The studio is warmer than you expect. Old brick. Tall windows dripping with rain. Canvases stacked against every wall, most of them turned backward, their painted faces hidden from you. It smells of linseed oil and damp wood and (- the sharp stench of a cave where things lie nestled in the dark with sharp teeth and sharper claws, maw dripping with hunger for every unsuspecting little thing that crosses in front of it’s eyes, too close too see the danger until its dragging them across stone floor- )

(And you’ll think about those canvases later. About how each one had been carefully turned toward the wall before you arrived, how easy it had been to assume this was modesty instead of concealment. Artists are strange, you’d thought. Private about unfinished things. You hadn’t yet considered that there might be things Johnny didn’t want looking back at you.)

Johnny puts you in an oversized white shirt (‘s mine, Bonnie, but ye can borrow it- ), says the fabric catches shadow better. Leaves your own clothes folded on a chair near the door (- farther away than they need to be- ) and settles you on a low platform beneath the windows, your knees drawn loosely beneath you, one hand resting against your throat.

The first few minutes pass in silence.

Charcoal scratching.

Rain needling softly against the glass.

Johnny looking at you, baby blue traveling slowly, steadily, returning to the same places over and over- the soft inside of your wrist, the hollow beneath your throat, the place where the shirt slips away from one shoulder whenever you breathe too deeply.

You try to hold still, but your back starts to ache. Your fingers curl against your collarbone. Each time Johnny looks up, you remember you’re being watched and flinch, shoulders rising, knees pressing closer together, chin sinking protectively toward your chest, too stiff.

His charcoal stills.

You apologize.

Ach, dinnae apologize. He smiles when he says it, but something in his expression stays still. His mouth curves. The rest of him doesn’t.

Ye keep foldin’ in on yourself every time I look at ye. Ahm not goin’ tae eat ye.

It’s too perceptive and your laugh comes out smaller than you meant it to. Johnny’s gaze sharpens at the sound, charcoal held motionless between fingers stained black nearly to the knuckle. He sets the charcoal on the easel tray and walks toward you, wiping blackened fingertips against his trousers.

His hands settle on your shoulders and press them down, thumbs sweeping slowly along the tight muscles beside your neck, working circles into the ache until your head tips forward despite yourself.

(That should’ve frightened you too, perhaps, the ease with which he found the softest part of you and pressed his thumb into it. But cruelty rarely introduces itself as cruelty.)

Can feel ye fightin’ me, he murmurs.

You tell him you’re only nervous.

I know, hen.

His mouth brushes close to your ear when he says it- That’s the problem-

You’ve never done anything like this before. Never sat beneath someone’s attention and been expected to let them take whatever they saw.

Johnny hums.

- Got somethin’ that might help-

He leaves you there and crosses to a cabinet near the sink. The bottle he brings back is already open. Red wine, dark enough to look black where it gathers in the bottom of the glass.

He pours while you watch, the glass filling nearly to the widest part before he seems to remember himself and stops.

You tell him that’s more than a little.

Is it?

The dimples appear.

Scottish measure.

You laugh despite yourself, and that seems to please him. He passes you the glass, waits until your fingers close around the stem, then returns to the easel as though the matter is settled.

It’s sweeter than you expect.

Dark fruit and spice, something thick and jammy that clings to your tongue after you swallow. It warms your stomach on the way down and then sits there, a small red coal beneath your ribs, heavy in your stomach, spreading outward in a slow bloom that reaches your fingertips first.

Johnny starts drawing again once you drink, charcoal moving with renewed purpose, and each time you begin to tense beneath his gaze, he tips his chin toward the glass.

You obey because you don’t want to be difficult (- not after he told you that you were the first beautiful thing he’d wanted to draw in months. Pride and vanity always did come before the fall-)

The first glass disappears without you noticing.

Johnny refills it.

You watch the wine climb the crystal, a dark red tide swallowing the clean sides. He pours generously this time, his wrist turning until the glass is almost full.

Johnny-

Ye’re still wound tight.

He presses the glass back into your hand, cups the base and tips it toward your mouth, red wine spilling over your lower lip, a thin ribbon escaping the corner of your mouth to trail down your chin- Swallow, hen, that’s it, good girl- thumb catching the crimson streak on your chin, smearing it gently across your swollen mouth, bringing his thumb to his own lips and dragging his tongue slowly over the wine stained pad, his gaze still fixed on your (- tasting one thing and thinking of another entirely- )

The room softens, hard corners of the platform blurring, rain beyond the glass stretches into silver threads. Johnny’s face becomes something painted in oils- dark lashes, blue eyes, the warm cut of his mouth- each feature bleeding gently into the next whenever you look too quickly.

(You’ll try to remember how many times he filled the glass after that. You’ll count backward later and find nothing solid enough to hold. One glass becomes two only because you remember him pouring. Two becomes three because the bottle was lower when you finally noticed it again. Memory is unreliable even when sober; drunk, it becomes something else entirely)

Your thoughts begin losing their edges.

That’s the strangest part.

Not the warmth or the heaviness gathering behind your eyes, but the way one thought stops connecting cleanly to the next. You think you should check the time, but the idea floats away before you remember where you left your phone. You think you’re thirsty, although there’s still wine in your hand. You think Johnny has been staring too long, but then he smiles and the concern dissolves before it can settle into fear.

Your brain turns liquid. Loose.

Everything inside your skull has melted into something warm and buoyant, thoughts drifting past one another like pale shapes beneath dark water. You can see them. Almost touch them. But each time you reach for one, the motion sends it farther away.

The warmth moves deeper with each glass. Into your thighs. Your cheeks. The soft tissue behind your eyes.

Nothing has edges anymore. Johnny’s charcoal scratches from very far away, scraping down the back of your mind.

You take another sip.

Your tongue feels too large for your mouth.

The wine sits syrup thick in your veins, turning your body slow and porous. You can feel yourself dissolving from the inside, bones losing their hard white calcifications, thoughts melting down into something warm and red and viscous. Your mind becomes a glass overturned on its side, everything inside it pouring lazily toward the lowest point.

Johnny tells you to lift your chin and it takes you a moment to understand him.

Your head feels full of warm red water. Too heavy for your neck, too light to belong to your body. When you turn toward him, the studio follows a moment later, swaying gently around its fixed point. Your stomach seems to remain behind while the rest of you drifts forward.

Johnny smiles. Feelin’ better?

Mmm. Floaty.

The word leaves your mouth thick and childish. You hear yourself say it from somewhere above the platform and start laughing, embarrassed by the way your tongue seems to have grown too large for your teeth.

Floaty, he repeats. Aye, I can see that.

The glass slips sideways in your hand when you try to lift it again, wine cresting the rim, pouring over your fingers in a slow, dark sheet, slipping between your knuckles and tracing along the inside of your wrist. You make a startled little sound at the coldness that breaks apart into a thousand shards against the brick of the walls.

Johnny catches the stem before it can tumble from your loose fingers- careful, hen- and you try to straighten it but some how make it worse. Another red thread spills across your palm, and your laughter returns, thick and breathless, your head bowing beneath the weight of it.

Can’t hold it, you confess.

Johnny looks at your hand.

His smile doesn’t disappear, the warmth staying arranged across his face, but everything behind it grows watchful and still, his gaze following the wine as it crawls toward the soft bend of your elbow.

Aye, he murmurs. I can see that.

He takes the glass from you and places it beyond your reach.

Then he closes his hand around your wrist.

(There are moments when the body understands before the mind does. A pulse quickening beneath someone’s thumb. Fingers curling uselessly toward the palm. Some small animal instinct lifting its head inside you and finding every door already underwater. Yours tries to warn you now, but the wine has made a soft, red grave of your thoughts, and whatever is screaming has sunk too deep to be heard.)

Johnny raises your hand slowly, turns your wrist upward and studies the dark streaks shining there as though you’ve offered him something.

His tongue touches the center of your palm.

Tickles, you mumble, trying weakly to pull your hand back.

Johnny doesn’t let you, fingers tighten around your wrist, dragging his tongue between two of your fingers, gathering the wine with slow, deliberate strokes, his eyes lifted to your face the entire time, stubble scraping your skin, your head tipping drunkenly toward one shoulder while he follows the spill downward. His mouth moves over the heel of your hand, then the tender inside of your wrist, tongue tracing the dark path until it reaches the quick beat of your pulse.

Johnny, you breathe, his name breaking apart around another shy (nervous) giggle.

Shh.

His lips close over the fluttering place beneath your skin, sucking gently at the flesh, and the laughter catches strangely in your throat.

For a second, the floating stops.

Your eyes find his. There’s no boyish embarrassment there now. No artist’s wonder. Only concentration, calm and proprietary, as if he’s discovered the precise place where you’re weakest and is committing it to memory.

Then the room tips again.

The fear slips away before you can name it.

Johnny lifts his mouth from your wrist. A faint red stain shines across his lower lip, though you can’t tell whether it’s wine or the shape of his teeth pressed too hard against your skin.

Couldnae leave ye all messy, he murmurs.

You smile at him, heavy eyed and grateful.

(That smile will return to you later. Not his. Yours. The soft, trusting curve of your own mouth while he held your pulse between his teeth, already learning how much he could take, could take, could take before you’d realize something was missing- )

His hand slides behind your neck when your head lists toward one shoulder, catching you with a palm spanning the base of your skull, fingers sinking into the soft place beneath your hair, and the strength of him feels like a pillar rising from the black water at the exact moment your feet stop finding the bottom.

You lean into him, body pouring toward the nearest solid thing with the blind obedience of water finding a crack.

(That’s the part you’ll hate most afterward. Not the touch itself, but the relief. The soft, grateful sound your throat makes when he holds your head up for you. The way your body, stupid animal that it is, mistakes restraint for shelter because the room has become a dark and gently turning sea, and Johnny- Johnny, who tipped the bottle into your mouth, who stood on the shore and watched the red water climb over your face- feels like the only thing left that won’t move beneath your hands.)

Can barely hold yourself up, can ye?

There’s laughter curled inside his voice. Warmth too. Enough warmth to blunt the edge of it, enough tenderness painted over the words that you don’t see the teeth beneath until much later, when you’re sober enough to pick each moment apart and find where the sweetness spoiled.

You mumble that you’re fine, word coming loose and swollen, a soft little shape that collapses against his chest before it properly leaves your mouth.

Course ye are.

His thumb moves behind your ear, slow enough to feel fond, presses into the tender hollow there and draws a circle, then another, while your thoughts slosh heavily from one side of your skull to the other.

Jus’ need a wee bit of help holdin’ the pose.

He reaches past you.

Something drags from the shelves, whisper of fibres over unfinished wood, dry and soft, the sound stretching strangely inside your head, unspooling through the wine until it becomes the scrape of something moving beneath a bed, the hush of grass parting around a body.

When Johnny settles back into view, there’s a pale coil resting in one charcoal stained hand.

You stare at it.

The meaning is there- somewhere- can feel it beneath the surface, pressing upward through the wine. But your thoughts are no longer thoughts, drifting pieces of them, each one separating when you reach, each one slipping wetly through your fingers before you can force it into words.

What’s that for?

The question sounds very far away.

Johnny looks at the rope, then at you.

You.

He says it so easily that you blink up at him, chin hooked against the hard planes of his abdomen.

Then his grin breaks wide, dimples cutting deep enough to make the answer harmless again.

The pose, hen. It’s for the pose.

He kneels beside you and takes your wrist, winding the rope around your skin once, then twice, explaining tension and composition and the body’s instinct to protect itself when it tires.

Always curls inward, he murmurs, thumb smoothing the inside of your wrist. Always tries tae hide the soft parts.

You watch his fingers move.

Over.

Under.

Through.

Cream colored rope, the shade of old lace or clean bone, pretty where it crosses your skin, fibres blurring at the edges when your eyes lose focus, becoming something delicate, ornamental. A bracelet. A ribbon. (Gift-wrapped and hand delivered-)

Johnny-

Too tight?

You don’t know.

You should know. The answer ought to exist inside your own head, but your body has gone dim and distant, a house seen through fogged glass. There’s pressure around your wrist. Heat beneath it. A pulse knocking weakly against the rope like someone trapped behind a wall.

Johnny slides one finger under the knot, fingertip stroking over your pulse while he looks up at you, eyes bright and attentive.

Wouldnae hurt ye.

You nod because he sounds so certain and rational thought is a stone tied to your ankle asking you to climb through red waters.

He binds the other wrist before you understand that the first one is finished. Lifts both arms above your head, and your body follows with a slow, boneless obedience that makes him smile. The stretch pulls through your shoulders, arches your back, tits pushing at the fabric of his shirt, body bent sharp enough to split the soft haze for half a second, and a whimper escapes before you can swallow it.

Shh. Easy, bonnie.

His hand slides down your arms, your sides, soothing the hurt he created, and the wine rushes back into the space pain briefly cleared. Warm. Heavy. Merciful.

He secures the rope to an iron ring sunk into the studio floor.

You hadn’t noticed the rings before.

There’s one near either side of the platform, black metal half hidden beneath old paint and dust. More beside the mattress in the shadowed corner, arranged at careful distances from one another.

The pattern should mean something.

(It does mean something.)

Your gaze catches on them and then drifts helplessly away.

(Fear needs a body that answers when called, and yours has become warm wax beneath his hands, softening wherever he presses, cooling around whatever shape he leaves behind.)

Your legs are next.

He cups one ankle and draws it outward. Then the other. Your heels drag over the platform with a soft rasp, your knees falling apart beneath the loose white shirt. The fabric slips higher along your thighs, and the first clean spark of alarm pierces the drunken fog when you try to close them again.

Johnny feels the resistance and his hands stop on your thighs, heat from his palms sinking into you until you can feel his fingerprints burning their marks into your bones.

Easy.

The word is quiet. Almost kind.

You shake your head, but the motion tips the ceiling sideways. The windows pour rain upward. Johnny’s face splits into two softened versions of itself, then swims back together as nausea rolls lazily beneath your ribs.

I don’t-

The sentence knots behind your teeth.

Don’t what?

The words are all there, drifting separately through the dark, but you can’t gather them into the same mouthful.

Johnny leans closer- what was that, doe- gives you every appearance of listening, eyebrows drawn with concern, mouth softened at the corners.

You try again.

Your tongue feels soaked through. Heavy as nebula, the sounds smearing against one another until even you can’t tell what you meant to say.

Johnny waits, watches the effort drain out of your face and only then strokes both hands down your thighs.

Thought so.

The ropes tighten around your wrists. Your ankles. A careful loop above your knee when your leg keeps listing inward, another where the position pleases him but your body won’t hold it on its own.

His hands guide the white shirt higher whenever it catches beneath you.

It’ll wrinkle, hen-

A little farther-

Hold still-

The fabric gathers in pale folds until it rests beneath the curve of your breasts, baring the plane of your stomach, the flare of your hips, your soft, silky cunt he has spread open for himself. His thumbs stroke once along the crease where thigh meets hip, pressing into the give of flesh (- as though he is already imagining how it will feel when he is between them- )

He looks at what he has done and the boyish grin is gone. What remains is quieter. Hungrier. His eyes move over you like he is deciding which part to taste first.

There we are, he murmurs. Much better.

You drift.

Fear is still there, but it has risen above you now, trapped on the other side of the wine. You can see its shadow crossing the surface while you float beneath it, black and frantic and distorted by the red water between you. Your shoulders ache. Your wrists burn dully where the rope takes your weight. Your legs are held apart by pale fibres and Johnny’s careful arrangement, but the body enduring it feels impossibly far away.

A figure at the bottom of a lake.

A pale thing laid open in the silt.

You’re near the ceiling. You’re inside the rain crawling down the glass. You’re suspended somewhere behind your own eyes, watching a woman in a white shirt test the ropes with small, weak movements she won’t remember making.

She looks frightened.

You wonder why she doesn’t leave.

(Drunkenness makes a cruelty of distance. It lets you watch yourself suffer without understanding that you’re the one inside the body. Lets the mind climb out through a crack in the skull and hover somewhere clean while the flesh remains below, warm and obedient and available. It feels almost like escape until you realize Johnny can still touch what you’ve left behind.)

Christ.

The reverence in his voice draws your gaze back to him.

He’s looking at you, eyes moving slowly over your arms lifted and secured, your knees drawn apart, the shirt bunched high where his hands kept moving it, pausing at each point of strain as if pain is another line he’s finally managed to place correctly.

Something in his face has gone still, colder than lust. The deep and emptied devotion of a man standing before an altar built for a god that cannot refuse him now.

There ye are, he whispers, as if you’d been hidden from him, as if the rope has finally uncovered something true.

Then he crosses to the studio door and you follow him with your eyes slowly, the room dragging several seconds behind his body.

Johnny turns the lock and the click enters your head like a stone dropped into deep water. He slides the bolt into place and the sound travels down through the wine and settles somewhere beneath your heart, where the part of you that still understands begins, very quietly, to drown.

Then his hip catches the corner of a canvas on the way back.

It happens slowly from where you’re floating. The frame tips away from the wall, knocks against the one beside it, and then the whole uneven stack begins to slide. Wood scraping brick. Canvas whispering against canvas. Johnny swears beneath his breath and reaches for them, but they have already fallen face up across the floor.

And…

There you are.

Your face.

You blink at it, wondering for a syrupy moment whether it’s the sketch he’s just made, though the woman in the painting is wearing your green coat from last autumn. Her hair is damp, cheek tucked into the collar against the rain. She’s standing beneath the yellow shelter at the bus stop near your work, eyes lowered toward the phone cupped between her hands.

Another canvas has you carrying groceries against your chest. The paper bag splitting at the bottom, oranges bright through the tear, your mouth caught open in a laugh you don’t remember giving him.

Another-

you behind the steamed glass of the little cafe on Bell Street, both hands curled around a mug. There are Christmas lights reflected over your face. Red and gold smears threaded through your hair like something festive and burning.

That’s me, you say.

Or think you say.

(There’s a truth arranged across the floor in front of you, patient and chronological. Months of it. Seasons of it. Proof painted in oils and hidden with its face toward the wall, waiting for the moment when you could no longer count backward clearly enough to understand what you were seeing. But your brain has become a red tide inside your skull, and recognition is a small animal trying to swim through it. You watch its paws break the surface once. Then it sinks.)

When did you- ?

The question dissolves halfway out.

Johnny crouches and turns the first canvas over, handles them gently. (More gently than he’s handled you.) Checks the corners for damage, thumb brushing dust from your painted cheek before he hides it against the wall again.

Clumsy bastard, he mutters.

You stare at the remaining portrait. The one at the corner shop. Washed out lights. Coins scattered across your palm. Your face turned slightly to the side as if someone has just called your name.

- The moment he told you about-

- The first time he saw you-

Except the painting of you at the summer festival last year is underneath it.

Your eyebrows pull together and the thought almost forms.

Johnny looks over his shoulder and sees you struggling there and his expression softens.

Dinnae hurt yourself, hen.

He rises, steps over the paintings and comes back to you. One blackened fingertip presses between your brows, smoothing the crease away as though confusion is another flaw in the pose.

Ye’re thinkin’ too hard.

You try to tell him there are paintings of you. You try to ask how long.

You try to but the words leave your mouth sodden and misshapen, each syllable dragging another behind it until the sentence reaches him as little more than a murmur, the beginning falling away before you reach the end.

Johnny understands anyway. (He always seems to understand you when it suits him.)

He watches your mouth with that same fond concentration he wore while sketching (the patient attention of a man waiting for something soft to finish struggling) then glances toward the canvases he hasn’t managed to turn over.

Did tell ye I’d been stuck for months.

The dimples sink deep.

Never said how long I’ve been working since then.

You look back at the paintings.

The woman beneath the bus shelter has your green coat buttoned neatly with a button that broke last September. The woman at the cafe is holding the chipped blue mug they stopped using sometime around Christmas. Another version of you is walking beneath trees still fat with summer leaves, bare legs flashing beneath a dress buried now at the bottom of your wardrobe.

Your mind touches the sequence and recoils, but there’s nowhere for the thought to go. The wine has flooded every corridor inside your skull, filled every room up to the ceiling. Understanding swims toward you through it- slow, pale, terrible- but each time it comes close enough to recognize, the current rolls you gently away.

Something cold opens inside you, but the wine pours into it before it can become fear. It fills every clean edge, rounds everything off, turns horror into a distant pressure beneath the sternum. Johnny strokes your cheek and waits until your eyes lose focus again.

(He hadn’t found you beneath the lights of the corner shop tonight. Not in the way he’d made it sound, not like lightning or providence or some dead part of him suddenly shocked back into motion. He’d already known which bus carried you home. Which cafe you preferred. What store you used. He’d watched summer soften into autumn around you, watched autumn die into winter, and called it inspiration because obsession sounds beautiful when an artist says it.)

Johnny collects the last canvas and turns it toward the wall and your painted face disappears.

There, he murmurs. Nothin’ tae worry about.

He comes back to you slowly, hands settling on your thighs, hot enough to feel like brands through the wine heavy numbness, heat sinking in around the breadth of his palms and the effortless weight keeping you where he put you.

You shake your head.

Or perhaps it only falls weakly to one side.

Johnny’s mouth brushes your trembling knee, almost gentle, while his thumbs draw slow circles against your skin.

Easy, hen.

You try to tell him you want to go home but all that emerges is a broken little breath.

He lifts his head and watches you struggle to assemble the words, patient until the last of them dissolves behind your teeth. Then he smiles tender enough to make it seem as though he’s forgiving you for being afraid.

(And somewhere above the wine, the small surviving part of you finally understands why the paintings were turned toward the wall.)

Johnny reaches back without looking and the amber lamp beside the platform clicks off.

Darkness folds over the studio, warm and absolute, and his hands tighten around your thighs when the ropes instinctively draw taut.

Now, he murmurs against your skin, hold the pose for me, hen.

[x-strwbrry]

pathetic little secrets

♡ simon ghost riley x virgin!female reader ♡ 18+

words count: 6k

You didn't mean to bring it up. Hell, you didn't even mean to think about it. It was just that the air in the safe house was too thick, the silence between you and Simon was too heavy, and the bottle of whiskey you'd been nursing had made your tongue loose and your filter non-existent.

You were perched on the edge of the rickety bed while he leaned against the wall, cleaning his rifle with the methodical focus of a saint polishing a relic. The only light was a single naked bulb, casting a jaundiced glow and carving his face into a landscape of harsh shadows.

The conversation had been about nothing. Mission fatigue, the shitty food, the way the rain sounded like nails on the tin roof. Then, you'd made a joke. A stupid, clumsy joke about a fellow soldier who couldn't keep it in his pants.

"Man's a walking liability," you slurred, a little too loudly. "Thinks with his dick, gets himself into all kinds of trouble."

Simon just grunted, his eyes never leaving the barrel of his gun. But you, feeling the warm, reckless burn of the whiskey, pushed on.

"At least he's getting some, I guess. Not like some of us are dying over here."

That got his attention. His head lifted, his dark eyes pinning you in place. "That what's on your mind, Sergeant? Dying for a shag?"

The way he said it, so casual, so dismissive, should have made you shut your mouth. Instead, it acted like gasoline on a fire. "Maybe," you retorted, trying for bravado and landing somewhere in the vicinity of pathetic. "What's it to you, anyway?"

He set the rifle down with deliberate slowness, the clatter of metal on wood sounding like a gunshot in the small room. He pushed off the wall and crossed the space in two long strides. He was a tower of muscle and barely contained violence, and you were suddenly aware of how small the bed was and how close he was.

"You sound like a bloody teenager," he rumbled, his voice low and dark. "It's just a fuck. It's not a holy grail."

And that's when it happened. The words tumbled out, a drunken, shameful confession that you couldn't claw back even if you tried. "Well, maybe I wouldn't know, would I?"

The air in the room changed, going from thick with tension to frozen solid. Simon stared at you, his expression unreadable, but you saw the flicker of surprise, the slow-dawning realization, and the subtle shift in his posture.

"Say that again," he commanded, his voice quiet, cutting through the whiskey haze.

You shook your head, a wave of intense heat rushing to your face, your stomach twisting with a mortification so acute you thought you might be sick. "Forget it," you mumbled, trying to look anywhere but at him.

He crouched down in front of you, bringing his face level with yours. His gloved hand reached out, tipping your chin up, forcing you to meet his gaze. Those eyes were searching, dissecting you.

"You're a virgin." It wasn't a question. It was a statement of fact, delivered with a kind of breathless awe that was somehow worse than mockery.

"Shut up," you hissed, trying to jerk your head away, but his grip was firm. The shame was a living thing inside you, clawing at your throat. You felt exposed and raw, like he'd peeled back your skin and found something soft underneath.

He let go of your chin, but he didn't move away. He just stared, his mind clearly working behind those dark eyes. You expected him to laugh, to call you a kid, or to tell you to get the fuck over it. Instead, he said something that shattered you completely.

"You want me to fuck you."

It wasn't a question either. It was the most terrifying, exhilarating statement you'd ever heard. Your denial was automatic, a knee-jerk reaction to the unbearable vulnerability. "No! I didn't say that. I just..." You trailed off, because what could you say? You did. You wanted it so badly it hurt. You wanted him. The terrifying, scarred, lethal man who now knew your most private secret.

His lips quirked into a ghost of a smile. It wasn't mocking; it was hungry. "You're a shit liar," he murmured. He leaned in closer, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper that made your skin pebble. "Is that why you've been lookin' at me like a lost puppy? Hoping I'd bend you over and show you the ropes?"

The crude, direct language sent a jolt straight to your core. You squeezed your thighs together, a pathetic attempt to relieve the sudden, throbbing ache. "Fuck you, Simon," you whispered, but it sounded weak and breathless.

"That's the idea, sweetheart."

So it had started as a joke, a stupid, whiskey-fueled slip-up that you'd both tried to bury under layers of snark and forced professionalism. For a few days, it was like a bizarre, unspoken truce. He didn't mention it, and you tried to pretend you hadn't basically offered up your virginity on a silver platter. You trained harder, kept your head down, and avoided his eyes like they were the abyss.

But the world had shifted on its axis, and you couldn't unsee it.

You started noticing things. The way his t-shirt stretched across his chest when he reached for a high shelf, the fabric straining over the solid muscle of his shoulders. The way his tactical gloves creaked when he balled his fists. The scent of him that seemed to linger in the air long after he'd left a room.

His eyes were the worst. Before, his stares had been assessing and analytical. Now, they were heavy, weighted with a new kind of intent. You'd feel them on you during a briefing, a heated, lingering sweep from your boots to your face that made your breath catch and your cunt throb. He was looking at you like he was picturing you naked, and the constant, low-level humiliation of your secret acted as a toxic aphrodisiac.

He was harder on you, too. His critiques in the field were more cutting, his expectations higher. He'd push you during PT until your lungs burned and your muscles screamed, his voice a low, relentless bark in your ear. "Again, Sergeant. Is that all you've got?" It felt like a punishment, or maybe a test, and every time you pushed through it, you felt a flicker of pride, followed by the hot rush of imagining what he'd do to you if you really impressed him.

The tension coiled tighter and tighter, a wire vibrating at a frequency only you and he could feel. It was only a matter of time before it snapped.

It was a normal enough afternoon. The whole team was sprawled in the common room, the low hum of the TV and Price's cigar smoke filling the space. Johnny was recounting some wild story about a bar fight in Prague, his voice boisterous and animated. You were trying to laugh, trying to be normal, but all you could feel was Simon's presence on the other side of the room. He was leaning against the wall, arms crossed, a beer bottle in his hand. He wasn't looking at you, he was looking at Johnny, but you could feel his attention like a physical touch.

Then Johnny, the glorious, oblivious bastard, said something that twisted the knife.

"Aye, but you know what it's like, Si," he said, grinning. "Sometimes you just gotta get in there, get the job done, no matter how tight the fit is. Am I right?"

A beat of silence. Your heart stopped. Simon's eyes, slow and deliberate, slid from Johnny to you. The corner of his mouth twitched. "Yeah, Johnny," he said, his voice a low, gravelly drawl that seemed to be directed only at you. "Sometimes you just have to be patient. Make sure they're ready before you... make your move."

Johnny laughed, clapping Gaz on the back. "See? The man's a poet."

But you weren't hearing it. Your blood was roaring in your ears. He was going to tell them. The paranoia, the toxic cocktail of shame and fear, exploded in your chest. He was going to expose you, right here, in front of everyone. He'd tell them you were some pathetic virgin who'd begged for it, and they'd all laugh, and you'd have to leave the task force.

Your chair scraped against the floor as you stood up, your movements sharp and jerky. "I need some air," you mumbled, not meeting anyone's eyes.

You didn't make it two steps before Simon's voice stopped you. "Sergeant. A word."

Your stomach dropped. You turned to see him pushing off the wall, his expression unreadable. He mystic jerked his head towards the hallway. "Now."

The others were already back to their conversation, but you felt their curious glances as you followed him out of the room and down the hall, your boots feeling heavier with every step. He pushed open the door to his quarters and you followed him inside, the door clicking shut behind you with a terrifying finality.

"What the fuck is wrong with you?" you hissed, the words tearing out of you the second the door was closed. "Are you going to tell them? Just get it over with and humiliate me, you bastard!"

He turned to face you, his eyebrows raised in genuine surprise. "Tell them? What the hell are you on about?"

"Don't play dumb!" you shot back, your voice cracking. "You're going to tell them I'm a... that I'm... that I don't know what the fuck I'm doing!"

His face softened just a fraction. The anger bled out of him, replaced by something that looked uncomfortably like pity. "Jesus," he muttered, running a hand over his masked face. "I'm not going to tell them anything. That's your business, not mine."

"Then why are you looking at me like that?" you demanded, your breath catching in your throat. "Why are you always fucking looking at me?"

"Because you're driving me fucking insane," he ground out, taking a step towards you. "I'm trying to give you space, trying to be a fuckin' gentleman, and you're over here thinking I'm about to announce your sexual history to the whole squad?"

The sheer absurdity of it, the relief mixed with the lingering fear, was too much. The words you'd been holding back for weeks finally burst free. "Just fuck me and get it over with!" you blurted out, the words sounding pathetic even to your own ears. "Just do it so I can stop thinking about it!"

He stared at you, his chest rising and falling with a deep, controlled breath. The silence stretched, thick and heavy. Then he spoke, his voice quiet, cold, and utterly commanding.

"No."

Your heart plummeted. "What?"

"I said no." He took another step closer, crowding you, his presence overwhelming.

You stammered, your brain short-circuiting. "I-I don't understand. You... you want to, don't you?"

His eyes flashed, a dark fire igniting in their depths. "Wanting to and fucking you are two different things, Sergeant. I'm not going to take your virginity because you're having a fuckin' panic attack. You'll wait."

"Wait?"

"You'll wait until you're sure. Until you can ask me properly." His gaze dropped to your mouth, then back up, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous purr. "And you'll ask me in my bed, after everyone's asleep. Then, and only then, I'll consider it."

The shift in power was dizzying. He wasn't rejecting you; he was setting the terms. And God help you, you wanted to agree to every single one.

"Okay," you whispered, your voice trembling.

He tilted his head, a gesture of both command and curiosity. "Okay, what?" His gaze was piercing, demanding.

You swallowed hard, your mouth suddenly dry. The old shame was there, but it was being drowned out by a new, more powerful feeling: a desperate, clawing need to please him. You sank to your knees on the cold, hard floor of his room, the movement feeling both shameful and right. You looked up at him, your heart pounding against your ribs.

"Please, Simon," you whispered, the words barely audible. "Please... fuck me."

A slow, satisfied smile spread across his face, visible even around the mask. He reached out and cupped your cheek, his thumb stroking your skin with a surprising tenderness.

"Good girl," he murmured. "Now get up and go back to the others. Act normal. I'll see you later."

You didn't remember much of the rest of the evening. You sat through the briefing, you ate dinner, you even managed a few stilted laughs at Johnny's jokes. But all of it was a blur, the background noise to the roaring in your head. You were going to Simon's room tonight. The thought was a live wire in your stomach, sparking terror and anticipation in equal measure.

Hours later, the base was quiet. The hallway was deserted, the only light coming from the red glow of the emergency exit signs. You moved like a ghost, your bare feet silent on the linoleum as you made your way to his door. You didn't knock. You just turned the handle and slipped inside.

He was waiting for you. He was sitting on the edge of the bed, his mask illuminated by the single lamp on his bedside table. He'd taken off his tac vest, leaving him in just a tight-fitting black t-shirt and his cargo pants. He looked human, and terrifyingly sexy.

"Lock the door," he said, his voice soft but firm.

You did, the click of the lock sounding like a gunshot. You turned back to him, your body thrumming with nervous energy. And then you noticed the room. It was different. The usually stark, military-neat space was softened. The bed had clean, crisp sheets on it. And there were candles, a few simple tea lights flickering on the windowsill and the dresser, casting a warm, gentle glow over the room.

"You... lit candles," you said, your voice small.

"I wanted you to be comfortable," he said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. He patted the space on the bed next to him. "Come here."

You went, your legs feeling unsteady. You sat down, a careful distance between you, your hands twisting in your lap. He didn't rush you. He just watched you, his dark eyes patient.

"You don't have to do this," he said quietly. "If you've changed your mind"

"I haven't," you said, a little too quickly. "I want this. I want... you."

He nodded slowly. "Good." He reached out and took one of your restless hands, his grip warm and steady. "We'll go slow. We'll go as slow as you need. And you tell me to stop if you want to stop. Understand?"

You nodded, your throat tight. "I understand."

He leaned in, and for the first time, you thought he was going to kiss you. But he just pressed his forehead against yours, a gesture so unexpectedly tender it made your eyes sting. His hand came up to cup your cheek, his thumb brushing your skin.

"Relax," he murmured. "Let me take care of you."

Then he did kiss you. It was nothing like you'd imagined. It was slow, soft, exploring. His lips were warm and firm against yours, and the fact that you could feel them, that the mask didn't cover them, made it incredibly intimate. You gasped against his mouth, and he took the opportunity to deepen the kiss, his tongue sweeping out to taste you. He tasted like mint and the faint, bitter hint of coffee, and it was the most intoxicating thing you'd ever experienced.

You kissed him back with a clumsy, desperate enthusiasm, your hands coming up to clutch at his t-shirt. He let you, his own hands moving to your waist, guiding you. He pulled you closer, until you were half in his lap, and you could feel the solid, hard plane of his chest against yours.

"Simon," you breathed against his lips, his name a prayer on your tongue.

"Shhh," he soothed, his hands sliding under your shirt. His fingers were calloused, rough against the soft skin of your back, and you shivered at the sensation. "Just feel."

He kissed his way down your jaw, to your neck, his lips and tongue tracing a path that made you arch into him. He pulled your shirt over your head, his eyes drinking in the sight of you in your simple cotton bra. He reached around and unhooked it with practiced ease, letting it fall away.

"Fuck, you're beautiful," he groaned, his hands coming up to cover your breasts, his thumbs brushing over your nipples. The praise, so sincere, so raw, sent a bolt of heat straight to you. You'd been so focused on your own inexperience, you hadn't considered that he might actually want this, want you, with the same desperate hunger.

He laid you back on the bed, his body hovering over yours, and continued his exploration. He kissed every inch of your exposed skin, his touch reverent. He was taking his time, so much time, working you up with a maddening slowness that had you writhing beneath him.

He started kissing your tits, his mouth hot and wet as he closed his lips around one nipple, flicking it with his tongue. The sensation was electric. And in your head, the old, ugly thought surfaced: He's done this a hundred times. He knows exactly what he's doing, and you're just another body in his bed. The thought made you squirm, a mix of jealousy and insecurity twisting your gut.

He must have felt the change in you, because he pulled back, his eyes searching your face. "What is it?" he asked. "Talk to me."

"I just..." you couldn't say it. It was too embarrassing. But he just waited, his gaze patient and unwavering. "I just... I know you've done this before. With people who know what they're doing."

A slow, dangerous smile spread across his face. "Yeah, I have," he said, his voice a low, dark rumble. "And do you know what I've learned?" He leaned down, his lips brushing against the shell of your ear. "I've learned that nothing is hotter than watching someone fall apart for the first time. I've learned that I fucking love being the one to make it happen."

He moved down your body, his hands hooking into the waistband of your pants. "I'm going to eat your pussy now," he stated, his tone leaving no room for argument. "And you're going to let me hear every single sound you make. No holding back. Understand?"

You nodded, your breath coming in short, shallow pants. He pulled your pants and underwear down in one go, leaving you completely bare to him. He settled between your thighs, his broad shoulders pushing them apart. He looked up at you, his eyes locked on yours as he slowly lowered his head.

The first touch of his tongue on your cunt was like a lightning strike. You cried out, your hands flying to his hair, your back arching off the bed. He groaned against you, the vibration sending shockwaves through your body.

"Fuck, you're wet," he rasped, his tongue lapping at you with long, slow strokes. "So fuckin' wet for me."

He ate you out with a devastating skill, his tongue finding your clit with unerring accuracy, circling and sucking until you were a whimpering, moaning mess. You could feel his spit mixing with your own slickness, the obscene, wet sounds filling the room.

While he worked, his hands found yours, his fingers lacing through yours, pinning them to the mattress on either side of your hips. It was an anchor, a connection in the midst of the overwhelming pleasure. He held your gaze, letting you watch him, his eyes dark with lust as he showed you exactly what his tongue was doing to your swollen, aching clit.

"Tell me how it feels," he commanded, his voice muffled against your flesh. "Talk to me."

"It feels... so good," you gasped, your nails digging into the backs of his hands. "Your tongue... fuck, Simon, don't stop."

His grip on your hands tightened, a silent acknowledgment of your plea. Your pussy was burning, a deep, throbbing ache that demanded more. You felt a fullness in your belly, a tightening coil of pleasure that was wound so tight it was almost painful.

He slid a finger inside you, then another, curling them just right. The stretch was intense, a dull burn that quickly melted into pleasure. He was watching your face, reading your every reaction, ensuring you were with him every step of the way.

"You're taking my fingers so well," he praised, his voice thick with arousal. "Look at that. So fuckin' tight." He pumped his fingers in and out of his mouth, his tongue still working your clit.

The dirty talk, the sight of him between your legs, the feel of his fingers and tongue, it was too much. The coil in your belly snapped, and your orgasm crashed over you in a blinding wave. You came with a loud, broken moan, your thighs clamping around his head as he worked you through it, drawing out every last shatter of pleasure.

He finally released you, crawling back up your body and kissing you deeply, letting you taste yourself on his lips. You could feel his erection, a hard thick line pressing against your thigh, and you were suddenly desperate to feel it, to feel Ghost.

You reached down, your hand palming his cock through his pants. He hissed, his hips jerking involuntarily. You wanted to make him feel as good as he'd made you feel. You wanted to show him how desperate you really were.

You pushed at his shoulders, surprising him. He let you roll him over, until you were straddling his thighs. You quickly undid his belt and fly, freeing his cock. It was even more intimidating up close, long, thick, and flushed dark red at the tip. A bead of pre glistened there, and you leaned down, licking it off on a whim.

"Fuck," he groaned, his head falling back against the pillow.

You looked up at him, your eyes wide. "Show me," you whispered. "Show me how you like it."

His eyes snapped open, dark with lust. He wrapped his hand around his cock, stroking it slowly from base to tip. "Like this," he said, his voice strained. "Spit on it."

You did, your saliva glistening on the head. He used it as lube, his fist moving in a smooth, steady rhythm. You watched, utterly mesmerized, as he pleasured himself.

"Your turn," he grunted.

You replaced his hand with yours, your grip tentative at first. You mimicked his movements, and he let out a low, encouraging sound. "Yeah, just like that, love. Tighter. Squeeze the head when you get to the top."

You followed his instructions, your confidence growing with every groan you elicited from him. He was leaking steadily now, his pre-cum making your hand slick.

You leaned down and flicked your tongue over the head again, tasting the bitter saltiness of him. He twitched in your hand, a guttural sound escaping his lips. Emboldened, you took him into your mouth, just the tip at first, swirling your tongue around him. The taste, the feel of him on your tongue, the power of having this strong, dangerous man at your mercy, it was intoxicating.

"Jesus, fuck," he gasped, his hand flying to your hair, not to guide you, but just to hold on. "You're gonna make me come, you little minx."

You smiled around his cock, a surge of feminine pride washing over you. You cupped his balls, rolling them gently in your hand, marveling at the weight of them. You even ran your fingers through the coarse, dark hair at the base of his cock, finding the fact that he was unshaven, so naturally and undeniably male, incredibly hot.

"Christ, stop looking at me like that," he groaned. "You're gonna make me blow my load before I even get inside you."

You pulled off him with a wet pop, grinning. "Sorry."

"You're not," he said, sitting up and kissing you hard. He flipped you over again, pinning you beneath him.

He reached over to the bedside table, grabbing a condom and ripping it open. He rolled it on with practiced efficiency, his eyes never leaving yours. He positioned himself at your entrance, the head of his cock nudging against you.

"Last chance," he said, his voice serious. "Tell me to stop."

"Don't you dare," you breathed, your legs wrapping around his hips, pulling him closer.

He pushed forward, slowly, so slowly, the stretch immense. You gasped, your hands clutching at his shoulders. It burned, but it was a good burn, a sign of the connection you were making. He paused, letting you adjust, his forehead pressed against yours.

"You're doin' so good," he murmured, his voice strained. "So fuckin' good. Just breathe."

You did, and as you did, he slid in deeper, inch by incredible inch, until he was seated fully inside you. The feeling of fullness was absolute, overwhelming. He was so deep, so much a part of you, it brought tears to your eyes.

He kissed them away, his lips gentle. "You okay?" he asked, his voice thick with emotion.

You nodded, unable to speak. He started to move, his thrusts shallow and slow. He held your hand, his fingers interlaced with yours, anchoring you as he began to fuck you. It was nothing like you'd imagined. It wasn't frantic or rough. It was deep, intimate, and devastatingly slow. He kissed your neck, your collarbone, your breasts, his lips worshipping your body as his cock worshipped your cunt.

You could tell he was holding back, his body trembling with the effort of not pounding into you. His thrusts were angled perfectly, stimulating a spot inside you that you didn't even know existed. The pressure built again, a slow, rising tide of pleasure that was even more intense than the first.

"That's it," he panted in your ear. "I can feel you gettin' tighter. Are you gonna come on my cock, sweetheart? Gonna come all over me?"

His words, combined with the relentless, perfect pressure, sent you over the edge again. You came with a silent cry, your inner walls clenching around him, your body shaking with the force of it.

"Fuck, yes," he groaned, his rhythm finally faltering. "I can feel you comin'. So fuckin' hot. So goddamn perfect." He slammed into you once, twice, three more times, and then he was coming with a hoarse shout, his cock pulsing inside you as he filled the condom.

He collapsed on top of you, his weight a welcome, heavy blanket. You lay there, tangled together, your breathing slowly syncing up as you came down from the high. After a long moment, he rolled off you, disposing of the condom before pulling you back into his chest.

You were silent, your mind reeling. You felt different. Changed. The shame, the insecurity, it was all gone, replaced by a deep, bone-deep satisfaction.

Simon pressed a kiss to the top of your head. "Stay," he murmured, his voice already heavy with sleep.

You didn't need to be asked twice. You cuddled closer, your head on his chest, listening to the steady beat of his heart. In the morning, things would be different. But for tonight, in the warm, candlelit glow of his room, you were exactly where you were supposed to be.

The only thing more shocking than the fact that you'd just lost your virginity to Simon 'Ghost' Riley was the realization that you wanted to do it again. And again.

The first few days after were a weird, hazy blur. You moved through your training exercises on autopilot, your body aching in places you didn't know could ache. A deep, pleasant soreness that was a constant, throbbing reminder of the way he'd felt inside you, the way he'd held you, the sounds he'd made. Every time you caught sight of him across the compound, a dark, imposing figure against the grey concrete, a jolt of heat would shoot straight to your core.

You expected things to be awkward. You'd braced yourself for smirks from Johnny or a pointed, knowing look from Gaz. But there was nothing. Simon was the consummate professional on the field, his commands sharp, his demeanor as unreadable as ever. If anything, he was a little more distant, a little more controlled, as if he was holding himself back with a supreme effort. And Johnny just thought you were hungover.

That first night back in the safety of your own room, you'd slid your hand into your panties and touched yourself, trying to replicate the devastating pleasure he'd given you. It was useless. Your own fingers were a poor substitute for the thick, insistent stretch of his cock, the expert roll of his hips. You came, but it was a hollow, fleeting thing, and it only made you miss him more.

It took three days of this simmering tension before you snapped. You were in the gym, pounding away your frustration on the treadmill, when he walked in. He was wearing a tight-fitting black tank top and sweatpants, his hair damp from a shower. He didn't look at you, just gave a curt nod and headed for the weights. But you saw the way his jaw ticked, the way his hands flexed at his sides.

You hit the stop button on the treadmill, the machine's whine cutting through the quiet hum of the room. "My room," you said, your voice sounding more confident than you felt. "Ten minutes."

He didn't even turn around. "I have a briefing."

"You'll be quick," you retorted, a sharp heat rising in your chest. You saw his shoulders shake with a silent, dark laugh before he gave you a single, sharp nod.

You were waiting for him, your heart pounding when your door creaked open. He slipped inside, closing and locking it behind him with the same quiet efficiency he did everything. He didn't say a word. He just crossed the room, cupped your face in his hands, and kissed you.

It wasn't sweet or slow this time. It was a kiss born of days of frustrated denial. His tongue was in your mouth immediately, claiming, possessing, and you met him with equal desperation. You clawed at his tank top, pulling it over his head, and he did the same to yours, his hands rough and impatient on your skin.

"Couldn't stop thinking about you," he growled against your lips, backing you towards the bed. "About this tight little body. About how you felt squeezing my cock."

His filthy words sent a rush of wetness between your thighs. You whimpered, your hands scrambling for the button of his pants. He shoved his trousers down, kicking them away, and then he was on you again, his naked, scarred chest pressing you into the mattress. He was already hard, his cock heavy against your stomach.

Si was tearing at your pants, and you lifted your hips to help him, kicking them away along with your panties. He was between your thighs in a second, his cock nudging at your entrance. You felt the tear of a condom packet and you grabbed his wrist, stopping him.

"Don't," you said, your voice breathless.

He stilled, his eyes searching yours. "You sure?"

"I'm on the pill," you rushed out. "And I trust you. I just... I need to feel all of you. Please, Simon."

He stared at you for a long, tense moment, something raw and vulnerable flashing in his eyes. Then he crushed his mouth to yours, the condom forgotten. He pushed into you in one long, smooth stroke, and the sensation was overwhelming. No thin barrier, just the hot, silky feel of him, every vein, every ridge. He was so deep, so impossibly deep, you could feel him everywhere.

"Fuck," you gasped, your head falling back. "You feel so good."

He set a brutal pace, his hips snapping against yours, the bed creaking in protest. "You feel like fuckin' heaven," he gritted out, his face buried in your neck. "So wet, so bloody tight for me."

You wanted more. You needed to be in control, to set the pace, to take what you needed. You pushed against his chest, and he let you roll him over with surprising ease. You straddled his hips, his cock still buried deep inside you, and braced your hands on his chest.

The sight of him below you was breathtaking. His chest was heaving, his muscles tensed, his eyes fixed on you with a burning intensity. And his mask, it had shifted slightly during the tussle, riding low on his nose, revealing more of his face than you'd ever seen. The sharp cut of his jaw, the curve of his mouth, the scar there. He looked wild, untamed.

You started to move, rising and falling on his cock, setting a rhythm that had you both moaning. His hands found your hips, then slid down to grip your ass, his fingers digging into the flesh as he guided you, helping you take him deeper.

"Simon," you panted, your head lolling back. "I can't... I can't stop thinking about you. You've done this to me. I'm obsessed."

His grip on your ass tightened, his eyes blazing. "Yeah?" he rasped, his voice strained. "Tell me what you're thinking about, sweetheart."

"Thinking about how full you make me," you whimpered, feeling another orgasm coil low in your belly. "How you stretch me so good. Si, please... please don't stop filling me up."

That was what broke him. With a groan, he sat up, wrapping his arms around you and crushing you to his chest. His mouth was on your neck, sucking and biting as he drove up into you, meeting your downward thrusts with powerful, desperate strokes of his own.

His mask was pushed down further, and you turned your head, your lips finding the corner of his mouth, kissing the scarred skin there. "You feel so good, LT," you whispered in his ear. "So fuckin' good inside me."

He came with a roar, his hips jerking erratically as he emptied himself inside you, the hot, thick flood of his cum triggering your own release. You came with a silent scream, your whole body clenching around him, milking him for every last drop. You collapsed against his chest, both of you slick with sweat, trembling with the aftershocks.

For a long time, neither of you spoke. You just held each other, your breathing slowly returning to normal. He was still inside you, softening but not gone, a warm, comforting presence. He reached up and gently adjusted his mask, pulling it back into place. The intimacy of the gesture, the quiet trust it implied, made your heart ache.

"Now you stay the night," you murmured into his neck, not a question, but a statement.

He didn't answer. He just held you tighter, and that was answer enough. You knew, with a certainty that this was no longer just about getting rid of your virginity. This was something else entirely.

And as you drifted off to sleep in his arms, you realized you were in way deeper than you'd ever planned to be.

[reveries0fmine]

You shaved your bush?! — Valko

pairing: bf!valko x reader synopsis: you prank your anti-deforestation boyfriend by telling him you shaved your bush... cw: suggestive but no explicit content, established relationship, fluff, kinda crack-fick wc: 700 a/n: he's soooo cute in this photo ugh Valko masterlist

“You did what?”

“I shaved it off, Valko.” you repeat for the second time.

He stares at you, conflicted and confused. His eyebrows are knit together tightly in a frown.

“Why?” he blinks at you a couple times.

“I thought it would be less bothersome for you.” you shrug, holding your smile back.

“You—” he starts but loses his words halfway. “Okay wait, I need a moment.” he huffs in disbelief. Leaning back against the counter behind him, his hand comes up to rub at the bottom half of his face. 

You fold your arms over your chest and look around the kitchen, avoiding his gaze to try and not laugh.

“Why would you think it’s bothersome for me? Did I do something to make you think that?” he asks, his tone softer. Clearly, this was a very serious matter to him.

You shake your head in response. “No… I mean, I just assumed. Most men don’t like that.”

“Most men??— baby, what about what Valko likes?” he stares down at you, distraught and betrayed.

Your eyes widen and you chuckle shortly. “Did you just refer to yourself in third person?”

He ignores your question, and before you know it, your feet are lifted off the ground and his large palms are holding onto your hips as he sets you down on the counter. 

“What are you doing—” you gasp.

“Show me. I wanna see it.” he requests, completely serious.

“Are you crazy?! Why?”

“Because I don’t believe you. I know that you know I love your bush.”

You scoff at him in disbelief. “I’m not showing you anything!”

“Why? ‘Cause you lied?” he tilts his head closer to you.

“No—because now’s not the time.” you stutter a bit, clearly caught red-handed. 

“Haven’t heard that one before.” He raises an eyebrow, his smirk growing. “You’re usually eager—”

You cut him off by putting your hands over his mouth. He laughs into them before swiping his tongue, licking them. You pull away immediately, as if you’d been burned. 

A beat of silence passes as you wipe your wet palm against the fabric of his shirt. He doesn’t seem to mind, he doesn’t even flinch, evidently used to it. 

The two of you stare at each other in silence, your hand remains atop his shoulder where you just wiped it. You watch him as he carefully lowers himself on his knees, eyes remaining glued to you the entire time. His hands move to rest on your knees.

You feel your face burn up and immediately tighten your grip on his shoulder. “Okay fine—it was a prank!” you blurt out. 

He freezes in his movements. “Really?”

You look away, and then back at him momentarily to nod. 

His hands still holding your knees, he closes them and rests his forehead against them while breathing out a sigh of relief. “You scared me for a second there.”

You chuckle at the sight, your hand finding its way to his burgundy locks. “That scary, huh?”

He leans into your hand, tilting his head sideways, and stares up at you as you continue brushing your fingers through his hair. “Yeah, you owe me an apology.”

You start scratching a particular spot you knew he liked. “Alright, alright. I’m sorry.”

He hums at the sensation, closing his eyes and enjoying your caress. His ears pop out suddenly, and you notice his tail swishing behind him. When he opens his eyes again, they hold a different intent. A heavier one. 

“I think you’re gonna have to give me more than an apology…” he grins.

You quirk an eyebrow, and before you can speak, he stands back up and lifts you into his arms. Your hands immediately find his firm shoulders for balance. 

His face is flushed now, and his eyes are dim. “... can I?” he pleas softly, waiting for your approval. 

Noticing you leaning down towards him, he lowers you so you’re face to face with him. You press your lips to his tenderly. “... yes, you can.”

His breathing is steady and he seems calm, but his rapidly wagging tail behind him gives him away. 

The two of you remain quiet as he carries you to your room and sets you down on the mattress, already understanding each other without using words.

also not proofread, sue me

taglist: @ashielle

[x-strwbrry]

ghost_s_riley_sys_failure.exe

simon ghost riley x female reader, age gap, 18+

It started with a fucking software update. You were the tech-wiz, the specialist who could navigate any system with a few clicks of a mouse. He was the grizzled veteran, a legend in the field who could disassemble and reassemble a rifle blindfolded but couldn't figure out how to connect his laptop to the projector. Captain Price had assigned you to 'show him the ropes,' a phrase that now made you want to laugh hysterically.

You’d leaned over Ghost’s shoulder, your breast pressing softly against his bicep as you pointed at the screen. "So, you just right-click here, and select 'duplicate display.' See? Simple."

He’d grunted in response, a low, non-committal sound. But he hadn't been looking at the screen. He'd been staring at the curve of your neck, the way your hair fell from your loose ponytail, the sweet scent of your vanilla shampoo. You were wearing a soft, pink top that day, with a heart-shaped neckline that dipped just low enough to show the swell of your breasts. When you leaned forward to grab the mouse, the fabric gaped, offering him a brief, maddening glimpse of your lacy bra.

And that's when it happened. A hot, sharp pang of arousal, his cock stirring in his cargos, thickening and hardening with a speed that was both shocking and humiliating. He was a man who controlled every aspect of his life, his body a finely-tuned weapon. And yet, here he was, getting a raging hard-on from a glimpse of lace and the scent of vanilla, all from a girl young enough to be his daughter. He’d shifted in his seat, gritting his teeth behind the mask. "Got it," he’d rasped, his voice rougher and heavier than usual. "You can go."

You’d given him a curious look but hadn't pushed it. You just gathered your things and left, oblivious to the absolute storm you'd unleashed inside him.

That night, Simon Riley jacked off with a ferocity that scared him. He came to the thought of your plump, soft ass in those tight tactical pants, the memory of your tits, so fucking perfect, spilling from that ridiculous top. He came so hard his vision went white, and the shame that followed was a cold, bitter pill. He was twice your age, your lieutenant. He was a pervert, a dirty old man lusting after the sweet young thing on his squad. He told himself it was a one-time thing, a moment of weakness brought on by a dry spell.

He was wrong.

It became a constant, low-grade torture. Every mission, every briefing, every training exercise was a minefield. He'd watch you on the firing range, your stance perfect, your brow furrowed in concentration, and he'd imagine that young look on your face as he fucked you slow, deep, and brutal. He'd see you laughing with Johnny, your head thrown back, your throat exposed, and he'd fantasize about wrapping his hand around it, feeling your pulse flutter against his palm while he stretched you open. He tried to keep it professional, throwing up walls of gruff indifference. But he was obsessed. He started finding excuses to be near you, to catch another whiff of your perfume, to see that heart-shaped neckline. He told himself it was just to ensure your safety, that he was just being a good LT. It was a blatant lie.

You weren't any better. You'd gone back to your room that first day and pressed your thighs together, your panties damp with arousal. You'd thought about the sheer power in his body, the gravel in his voice when he said 'got it.' The guys your own age were disappointing. They were fumbling, cocky boys who thought a quick rutt was the pinnacle of pleasure. They didn't have the knowing, dominant look in Simon's eyes. They didn't have hands that could probably snap you in half but would hold you with a surprising, possessive tenderness. You started trying to get his attention, wearing your hair down, choosing softer tops, 'accidentally' dropping your pen in front of him. You craved his gaze on you, the forbidden heat of it. You wanted to know if you affected a grown, hardened killer the way he affected you.

The breaking point came during a late-night gear check. The armory was empty, the only sound the hum of the fluorescent lights. You were checking your vest, your back to him, when he approached.

"Your strap's loose," he said, his voice close to your ear, the deep rumble vibrating through your spine.

You turned, and he was right there, a towering wall of muscle and barely restrained, older need. His eyes were dark, fixed on your mouth. "I can fix it," you whispered, your heart hammering against your ribs.

He didn't move. "Let me."

His hands, so large and calloused, moved to your hips, his thumbs brushing the bare skin where your shirt had ridden up. The touch was electric. He pulled the strap tight with agonizing slowness, his knuckles intentionally dragging against the underside of your breast. Your breath hitched.

"Simon," you breathed, a question and a plea all at once.

"This is a bad idea," he growled against your lips, even as his hand slid up to palm your breast, squeezing it hard.

"The worst," you agreed, arching into his touch, your hands fumbling with his belt buckle.

The conversation that followed, between frantic kisses and discarded clothes, was the most honest you'd ever had. You told him about the immature boys, the unsatisfying encounters. He told you about the loneliness, the years of rigid discipline that had left him starved for a connection that wasn't just physical.

"I wanna be dirty with you," you confessed, your hand finally wrapping around the thick, heavy length of his cock. It was perfect—thick, so thick you could barely get your fingers wrapped around it, with a heavy, prominent vein that ran up the underside. The head was a flushed, angry red, leaking pre-cum constantly, a slick bead that you couldn't help but lean forward and lick away, savoring the salty, musky taste of him.

Simon hissed, his eyes rolling back.

"I wanna do all the things they were too scared to do."

"Fuck," he groaned, his hips thrusting into your fist. "You have no idea what you're askin' for, sweetheart."

"Show me," you demanded, dropping to your knees before him. "Show me how a real man fucks."

Si was a man of control, of discipline, but with you, that control shattered completely. He kissed you like he was starving, like he was trying to crawl down your throat. His tongue was everywhere, licking into your mouth, tasting you, demanding you taste him back. The kisses were wet, filthy, obscene. He sucked on your tongue, a groan rumbling in his chest that made your pussy clench around nothing.

When he had you naked, spread out for him on the armory table, the real depravity began. He loved your ass. He spanked it first, the sharp crack of his hand against your young flesh echoing in the room, leaving a red handprint that he'd later kiss better. You were writhing on the table, begging for more, for him, for anything.

Then he spread your cheeks, his breath hot against your most private place. "Simon, please," you whimpered, a mix of shame and desperate need in your voice.

He didn't answer with words. He just leaned down and licked a long, slow stripe over your tight hole. The sensation was so wrong, so intense, that you saw stars. He didn't just do it; he devoured you. His tongue was pointed and firm, pressing against the furled muscle, circling it, probing it. The sounds he made were utterly nasty—wet, lewd slurps and groans of pleasure as he ate your ass like it was his last meal.

And while he was doing that, his fingers were at your pussy, playing with your slick folds, spreading your wetness. He pushed two fingers inside you, curling them to hit that spot, all while his tongue was still working your ass. The dual stimulation was overwhelming, a mind-breaking pleasure that had you sobbing his name.

He didn't care about the mess. He didn't care about anything except making you fall apart. He talked to you while he did it, his voice a low, dirty murmur against your skin. "You like that, don't you, you dirty girl? Like an old man tongue-fuckin' your tight little arse? Gonna make you come so hard, babygirl."

And he did. Every single time. You came with a scream, your body shaking. And Simon, your perverted, perfect Simon, was right there to catch you, to hold you, and to whisper in your ear how much he loved his filthy little girl.

When he first pushed his dick inside you, it was a stretch that bordered on pain, a delicious, burning fullness that stole your breath. You had to claw at his back, your nails digging into the hard muscle as he worked himself in, inch by agonizing inch.

"Breathe, love," he groaned, his voice strained. "Just breathe. You can take it. You're gonna take all of this cock."

And you did. Because you wanted to. You needed to. Once he was fully seated, he paused, his massive body trembling with the effort of holding still. You felt it pulsing inside you, a hot, living thing, and you were already overwhelmed.

Then he started to move. He didn't fuck you fast at first. He fucked you deep. Long, slow, grinding strokes that hit so deep you swore you could feel him in your belly. He watched your face the entire time, his dark eyes cataloguing every twitch of your expression, every gasp and moan that escaped your lips.

"That's it," he praised, his voice a low, dark rumble. "Look at you, takin' my fat cock like you were made for it. Such a tight little pussy, squeezin' me so good."

He loved to make you beg. He pulled out almost completely, leaving you empty and aching, until you were a whimpering mess, your hips lifting off the surface, trying to get him back inside.

"Simon, please," you begged, tears of frustration pricking your eyes. "Please, I need it. I need your cock."

"Where do you need it, sweetheart?" he taunted, the head of his cock just nudging your entrance. "Tell me how much you want it."

"In my pussy," you sobbed, shameless. "Please, fuck my pussy with your big cock. I need you to fill me up."

That's when he slammed back into you, setting a brutal pace that had the structure around you rattling. The sounds were obscene—the wet slap of his skin against yours, your own high-pitched, youthful moans mixing with his deep, guttural grunts.

"That's my girl," he growled, his hand wrapping around your throat, not squeezing, just a possessive, grounding weight. "Ride my cock, baby. Take it all."

You did. You took everything he gave you, the pleasure so intense it bordered on pain, your whole body trembling with the force of his thrusts. He'd turned you into a trembling, begging mess, just like he wanted. He fucked you against the shelves, your legs wrapped around his waist, whispering the most depraved things in your ear.

"You like this, don't you? Like being fucked by an old pervert? God, you're so tight, so fuckin' perfect."

You were obsessed. You were addicted to the taste of him, the feel of him, the delicious wrongness of it all. You sucked his cock like it was your new religion, loving the way his hands would fist in your hair, the way he'd lose his composure, his quiet grunts turning into deep, guttural groans.

He was just as gone on you. The way you looked up at him with wide, innocent eyes as you swallowed him down, the way you screamed his name when he made you come, the way you begged for more—it was a fucking revelation. He'd never felt this desperate, this utterly consumed by someone whom he was actively corrupting.

And when he came, it was with a roar of your name. His cock jerked inside you, and you felt the hot, thick spurts of his cum painting your insides, so much of it that it started to leak out around his shaft, trickling down your thighs.

"Attagirl," he panted, his hips still moving, still fucking his cum deeper into you. "Fuck, I'm fillin' you up, baby. Gonna keep you full of me all night."

But the best part, the part that made you utterly his, was that he didn't stop. Even after he was finished, even after he had emptied himself inside you, his cock stayed hard. He kept moving, using his own cum as lube, the filthy, wet sounds getting louder, more lewd.

"Simon," you whimpered, overstimulated, your body already exhausted.

"One more," he grunted, his mouth crashing down on yours. "Gimme one more, sweetheart. I know you can. Cum on my cock again, fuck me empty, baby.”

And you did. You always did. You shattered around him again, your body a limp, sweaty, satisfied wreck. He was your LT, your pervert, your own personal drug, and you wouldn't have it any other way. You loved being his dirty little secret, the one he fucked into oblivion and then held so tenderly afterward.

It became your secret, a filthy, thrilling addiction. You'd find hidden corners of the base, steal moments between missions. He'd bend you over his desk, or you'd ride him in the front seat of his car in the darkened motor pool. The conversation flowed as freely as the sex, a mix of dark humor, shared trauma, and explicit fantasies. You'd talk about everything and nothing, your connection deepening with every dirty word and whispered confession.

One night, after a particularly grueling mission, you were both too exhausted to even make it to the bed. You lay on the floor of his quarters, a tangle of limbs and sweat-slick skin.

"I'm ruined for other men, you know," you murmured, tracing a scar on his chest. "No one's ever gonna fuck me like you do."

He let out a low, dark chuckle, pulling you closer. "Good," he rumbled, his lips brushing your temple. "Because I'm a selfish, perverted old man, and I'm never letting you go."

And in the quiet darkness, with the scent of sex and gun oil hanging in the air, you knew he was right. You were his, completely and utterly, and you wouldn't have it any other way.

[99-alterego]

[im-not-a-pleeb]

How the 141 prefer to keep themselves groomed

Sort of a companion and continuation of this post

With the way John keeps his facial hair, you'd expect the same level of obsessive precision downstairs, right? Well, maybe once upon a time. He used to keep it neat when he was in his 20s, but as he's gotten older he simply can't be arsed. He'd absolutely use it as a way to make you feel more comfortable if you didn't shave and you're a little insecure about it. "M'not precious about it, love. I mean, look at me. M'not worried about a bit of bush."

I always imagine Kyle as being very conscious of his appearance and liking to feel clean. For him that means keeping shaved. Throwback to my first ever headcanon about him, but I just feel like he'd have the soaps and shaving creams that are easiest on the skin and also ecologically friendly. He uses the best bamboo razors on the market and he will definitely try to hook you on them too if you're dating. His partner deserves the best, afterall!

Johnny is a bit of a wild card. Sometimes he'll let it grow out and other times he'll shave it all completely off. It mainly depends on how he's feeling when he showers, there's no trademark. He likes the merits of keeping it both ways, so he just alternates between bush, trimmed, and bare whenever he feels like it. If he's got a pretty regular partner he'll be happy to maintain it to whatever your preference is on a man.

Simon likes to keep a physical distinction between home and deployment. If he's deployed he lets it be, maybe trimming it back now and then, but when he's home he'll shave religiously. He's learned to associate hair with the stress and torment of his job, so keeping it maintained and bare is a comfort. Unfortunately, it's also created a bit of a superstition in his mind. He's now convinced that if he skips a shave he'll end up getting shipped off overseas by morning.

Masterlist

Hey guys, am I insane for this? If i am, don't forget to like, comment, and subscribe for more epic content 😎

[gloomwitchwrites]

for the anon that wants to know how the 141 eat pussy. mdni.

Gaz enjoys a slow, intimate 69 laying sideways. He can watch you suck his dick, touch more of you, finger as he licks.

Ghost likes it on his knees with your legs over his shoulders, arms supporting your ass and bracing you against the wall. He loves that you can’t wiggle away.

Soap is a face sitter. He wants you to crush him, to squeeze his head between your thighs. The man wants to die eating pussy.

Price is as traditional as they come. He’ll grab your ankle and yank you to the edge of the bed, go down on his knees, and have himself a feast.

CoD Headcanons / AUs / Quick Writes Masterlist // main masterlist

[dykej-deactivated20260114]

"i need to break you in a little more" ughhbghhnsx

[opulentpeony]

good girl - uncle!jack x niece!reader

word count: 7.7k warnings: dead dove: do not eat, rape/non-con (bc of somnophilia), fauxcest, enemies to lovers (you don't like your uncle jack…), he calls you “dear”, perv!jack, age gap (you're in college), there's only one bed! (bc your uncle wants you to sleep with him, oop-), stalking, surveillance, non-consensual drug use (he sedates you), implied loss of virginity, captor/captive dynamic (he holds you captive in his house!), stockholm syndrome, murder (wow am I nuts or is he?), sadism, unprotected sex, breeding kink, edging, forced orgasms, pet play (you're wearing a shock collar…), praise kink (lots of “good girl”), squirting (on puppy pads), anal play (he makes you wear a tail), sex toys, choking, humiliation/degradation kink, size difference, possessive behavior, jealousy, uncle!jack takes very good care of his pet niece!  summary: due to unforeseeable circumstances, you're forced to move in with your uncle jack. you promised him that you would wait until he has a day off of work to put together your bed frame so you've been sleeping in his bed until then.  but he keeps putting it off, as an excuse to keep you in his bed.  so when you decide to put together your bed by yourself, he gets really angry…

a/n: since the citizens of freak nation have been asking for pet play, I decided to return to this draft I completely forgot about with my pervy icky uncle!jack ~ 

hope it's a sick read ♡

You wish you didn't have to move in with your uncle. 

It's a bit dramatic to say you hate Jack Abbot but…you have never really liked him. 

He's just a family friend, someone who happens to show up to the parties your family gets invited to. He usually never goes to these outings but whenever he does, he always singles you out. 

You have no idea why. Maybe it's because when you were younger, you said that you had an interest in medicine and someone in the family introduced you to Jack, since he's a doctor. 

Even though you have long since pivoted away from medicine, it seems like he is hyperfixated on you despite everything. 

And now, you're stuck living with him…

It's supposed to be temporary. Just for a while, until you get back on your feet since you got kicked out of your house. 

Jack had heard what had happened and reached out to you. You never expected a text from him.

You never should've agreed.

But you couldn't say no to the prospect of no rent and living closer to your college campus. Plus, Jack gave you his credit card for any purchases, like groceries or stuff for your room. 

You told him that you won't buy too much since you don't plan on staying. You wanted to get an air mattress to sleep on until you found your own place but Jack insisted that you get a nice mattress and bed frame. He would help you move it when the time comes.

Though, will Jack let you move out now that he finally has you in his house? 

Definitely not. 

You're so silly for even thinking he would but you seem rather oblivious to how attracted he is to you. You don't react to his casual touches or his direct flirtations. You brush them off as symptoms of his carefree personality. 

If anything, you dislike him.

He knows you do.

He doesn't understand why you do, but he would be a fool not to recognize how often you try to avoid him when he's home.

The only time you can't avoid him is when it's time to sleep. And that's only because he refuses to help you put together your bed frame until he has a day off but he has been “too tired” on his days off to want to do it and he won't let you do it on your own. He got a rather difficult to assemble bed frame that requires two people to put together.

Jack did this on purpose, so you would have to sleep in his bed with him for as long as he can stall out the assembly because he won't let you “dirty the nice mattress by putting it on the basement floor”. He has a shitty couch, more like a tiny loveseat, that can't possibly be comfortable to sleep in. You have tried, several times, to see if you could but you always resorted to sleeping in Jack's very plush, king-sized bed. 

It's like he purposefully made his bed extra comfy so you can't help but sleep so well there. 

Even though sometimes you wake up with him tucked in behind you after his night shift, his arms wrapped around you. You've talked to him about this but he claims he isn't doing it on purpose. According to him, he is fidgety in his sleep because of his PTSD. 

That's why you can't fight him on it. 

Jack knows that, deep down, you're a sweet girl with a big heart. You never make him feel bad for having a physical disability. You are open to helping him with his prosthetic if he ever needs it. But he doesn't like to ask because he wants you to rely on him, not the other way around. 

Like the way your body is slowly craving his touch. 

You aren't conscious of it because Jack only touches you after he's certain you've drunk some water from the cute water bottle you always drink out of right before bed. He adds a pinch of something that renders you immobile until you wake up. 

Only a pinch because he wants you to still be able to feel the orgasms he gives you. He just doesn't want you to wake up and ruin his fun.

You've been having the weirdest dreams. It doesn't help that you wake up wet between your legs and occasionally with Jack's hard cock pressed up against your ass. He's fast asleep so you know it's not on purpose but it makes you so uncomfortable because of how big he is. 

Though, it makes you more uncomfortable that your mind wanders to how it would feel inside of you. 

Thoughts you shouldn't have but your body aches for it. 

Like your body has felt it before… 

But that can't be possible. 

You've never even had sex before. 

Not that you know of. 

Jack has had sex with you plenty of times by now. He's cum inside of you too. He always fingers you until it all spills out so you don't notice it too much when you wake up. He administered the birth control shot in your sleep a while ago to prevent a random pregnancy.

If he wants you pregnant, Jack will get you pregnant. But for right now, he needs you to want him first. 

Something that's proving to become more and more impossible everyday. 

Your body wants him. He has trained it to desire him. But you don't want him. 

He overheard you saying as much over the phone to some guy you've been “seeing”. You don't know that Jack has your phone wire tapped so he hears every phone call you make. He specifically pays attention to the ones you take when you go out on a walk in the neighborhood to avoid him hearing you complain about him.

“It's not like he does anything weird but my uncle just gives me the creeps sometimes.” You sigh as you round the block for the fifth time during this conversation. “I don't know if I'm making it up in my head but I swear, it feels like he's…watching me.” 

The guy you're talking to provides you with no comfort because he's not looking to hear you complain. Jack knows exactly what this guy is looking for when he comes to you. 

He stalked him for enough days to piece together that all that guy wants to do is get in your pants. 

And that's a place reserved for your uncle. 

So, against his best wishes, Jack simply has to take care of the issue. 

A few days later, there's a knock on the front door. 

Jack is cleaning his shoes, a routine he does whenever he wakes up a bit early before his night shift, so you go to answer the door. 

You look through the peephole and furrow your brows, confused. 

“Who is it, dear?” Jack asks and you try not to physically cringe at him calling you “dear”.

He refers to you as “his dearest niece”, something that still gives you the creeps but you elect to just ignore it and blame it on the fact that he's an old man.

“The police.” You open the door for them. 

The two officers ask if you live at the house and you nod. “Is there something I can help you with?” 

“Apologies, ma'am, but we just need to ask you a few questions—oh Jack!” The officer recognizes your uncle and you nearly flinch when you feel Jack's arm wrap around your shoulder. “Is this that niece you're always talking so fondly of? I knew this house seemed familiar.”

“You've only ever come over here drunk so I figured you must've had trouble recognizing it.” Jack says so casually, throwing in a light laugh before asking, “anyways, what seems to be the issue with my niece? Did she get into some trouble?”

He squeezes your shoulder playfully but you don't like the way his fingers dig so hard into your flesh… 

“We just wanted to ask her some questions.” They show you a photo of the guy you were talking to, who ghosted you a few days ago. “Do you recognize him?” 

You explain everything to them, since they ask about your last conversation with that guy. You tell them that the two of you barely know each other and that he's someone who asked for your number in class. That is a trend that the police officers are noticing because they reveal to you that you aren't the only one he was talking to. That much you figured but it stings a little hearing it put so bluntly…

“Is everything okay with him?” Not like you care but the police have to be here for a reason. 

Jack doesn't like that you ask that. He thinks you're asking because you care. He tightens his grip on your shoulder unconsciously. 

The tension remains when the officers tell the two of you, “we found his body this morning. Been dead a few days.”

“Oh fuck.” You can't believe it. Maybe he didn't ghost you after all… “How did he die?”

The officers look at each other. They probably shouldn't disclose it.

But then Jack pushes for the answer, since he's curious how much the cops know. He was going to snoop around during his next SWAT shift but this is a little easier. 

Officers love to gossip with people they think they can trust. 

“Must've been bad if you're questioning my niece.” Jack fishes for it without asking directly. 

“It was pretty brutal.” The officer Jack is friendly with admits. “Guy got all of the blood drained out of him. He had to have been alive when it was happening, according to the medical examiner.”

Jack can feel you tense up at that so he waves the officers away, “you're scaring her. If you don't have any other questions, I think you should give her some space to mourn her classmate.” 

The officers apologize and then head out, telling Jack that they'll see him next time he's on shift. 

He shuts the door and turns to you, seeing the way you've gone completely still. 

“Are you alright?” Jack cups your face with his hands, bringing you up to look at him. “You're trembling.” 

“I-I…I've never had someone I know die before.” Especially not someone your age. “And he was murdered…”

Jack should've killed him sooner. You're allowing him to touch you so easily right now. Could he have had you all this time if he had just scared you a little? 

He wraps his arms around you, pulling you in close to him, hugging you as he gently rubs your back. He comforts you and you accept it because you are genuinely freaked out. 

“It's hard so take your time to grieve.” Not too long but he'll let you grieve since you've never had to before. Plus, it is his fault you feel this way right now, since he killed the guy. “I'm here for you if you want to talk about it. I've had plenty of people I know die.” 

“I don't know how you do it.” You seriously don't.

Your uncle sees people dying almost everyday. It's one of the reasons you decided against medical school. You aren't mentally strong enough for that. 

“Lots of therapy.” He pats your head gently, speaking softly and kindly. He might not get another chance to draw you into him so he needs to make it count, “do you want to see a therapist? I can pay for it.” 

You shake your head. “I'll be okay, Uncle Jack. Thank you though, I really appreciate it.” 

You hug him back, grateful to have the support. He holds you close, wishing this moment could last forever. 

Since then, you aren't as annoyed when you feel him spoon you in his sleep. You find his touch oddly comforting now, even though you shouldn't entertain the idea of it. 

You can't live here forever and you definitely can't keep sleeping in the same bed as your uncle. 

Your dreams keep getting filthier and filthier…

You imagine Jack on top of you, pounding into you furiously, shoving you deeper into the mattress, grunting, groaning, cumming hard while he says your name on repeat, filling you with hot ropes of cum deep inside that feel real. 

You wake up with your fingers in your pussy, wet with your slick, and Jack's arms securely around your waist. He has no clue you had such a raunchy dream about him just now.

And you have no clue that it wasn't a dream at all. 

Jack did pump his entire load inside of you, having been pent up all day long at work from thinking about his niece's tight pussy wrapped about his cock. You've been swallowing him up so easily lately. You might not need the prep anymore. 

But he still makes sure you cum a few times in your sleep before he starts fucking you. He may be fucked up, but he isn't that greedy. He likes seeing you cum, your body convulsing uncontrollably when your orgasm hits in your sleep. 

If only Jack could see the same sight while you're awake. 

He hasn't crossed that line yet. 

He hadn't planned to.

Until he comes home from work today and you aren't sleeping in his bed like you usually do.

You're always asleep at this time. You're supposed to be. He is certain he drugged your water before he left. 

But you didn't drink from your water bottle today. You actually put it in the dishwasher because you figured it needed a clean since the water had been tasting a little funky lately so you washed it and drank from a glass instead as you spent hours putting together your bed frame in your bedroom, which is in the basement. 

You had found a video online on how to assemble the exact bed frame Jack got you but with only one person. It took an extra hour to accomplish but you no longer have to sleep in Jack's bed anymore. 

Meaning you will, hopefully, stop having wet dreams about him…

You fall right asleep once you've put the mattress on the bed securely and washed up for the night. You can finally sleep with a locked door between you and Jack, which is how it was always meant to be. 

But Jack can't stand it when he tries your doorknob and it's locked. 

Because now, if he unlocks it to fuck you in your sleep, you will know. You put a piece of tape on the door, so if it breaks, you can prove that Jack broke into your room. 

It's something you had to do because your parents would come into your room at night to snoop around your stuff. It's why you got kicked out because you confronted them about it with evidence and they didn't like how “ungrateful” you were. But you didn't like how fucking weird they were being, sneaking into your room. 

Something you figured would eventually happen with Jack…

And Jack debates throwing caution to the wind because he wants to fuck you so badly. 

He had grown used to using your perfect pussy as stress relief after a long night shift. He feels like he's being denied a basic need of his. 

But he is too smart to give in.

He needs to plan something to show you that you belong to him. 

And it starts by trapping you in your room.

You wake up starving so you go to unlock your bedroom door to grab some food but it won't open. 

You pound on the door, shouting, “Uncle Jack! Are you there? My door is stuck!”

You try pushing it a few times but it won't budge. 

It's like it's still locked.

Because it is, from the other side, with a biometric lock…

Your eyes glance over to the tape. 

It's ripped. 

That means Jack was in your room. 

You dart around the room with your eyes, noticing now that the room has no windows. 

Isn't that a code violation?

But it's in the basement so…

You hadn't thought about the room much and you were so tired after putting your bed together that you just went right to sleep. 

You're thankful that you have a working bathroom but that's all you have. 

There's nothing but clothes in your room. You don't have your phone. You don't have your laptop or your school supplies. 

What the fuck is going on…

Are you—

You start frantically pounding on the door, screaming, “Uncle Jack, let me out!”

No response. 

You are fucking trapped in here. 

Jack likes seeing the way you panic. He installed a few cameras to watch you like you're a pet he needs to monitor while he's away.

You should've known better than to disobey him. He told you to wait until he could help you put the bed frame together. 

Just because he was purposefully putting it off doesn't mean you should've went out of your way to do it yourself!

Truly, this is all your fault. 

All you had to be was his good girl. 

But you just had to be difficult. 

So now, of course he has to punish you!

All of a sudden, you hear your uncle's voice coming out of a speaker in your walls, “you don't get to leave until you apologize for not listening to me.” 

“Excuse me?” You can't believe this! “What the fuck is your problem, you fucking freak!”

Jack sighs, tired of your attitude.

Then, all of a sudden, you feel an electric shock around your neck and you yelp! 

“What the fuck—” You finally perceive the thin collar around your neck, tugging at it. It won't budge. “Did you put a shock collar on me, asshole?!”

He shocks you again and you wince. It doesn't really hurt but it stings, like someone's slapping one of those weird plastic wristbands around your neck over and over again. 

“Stop!” You plead because you don't like the feeling.

“Apologize to me.” Jack is stern with his tone. 

“I'm sorry.” You tell him. 

“For what?” He wants a full apology. 

“I'm sorry I didn't listen to you and put together my bed without you, Uncle Jack.” You brace yourself to get shocked in case your apology isn't good enough but thankfully he doesn't. 

“Get on your knees.” He instructs.

“W-What?” You are definitely not doing that. 

“Get on your knees at the door and wait for me or else.” He makes his threat very apparent. 

Jack watches how reluctant you are. You obviously don't want to do it, which only makes it all the more delightful when you finally submit. 

You kneel at the door, waiting for him, your lips all pouty. He wants to shove his cock into that pretty mouth of yours right now. 

But he'll have to hold back. 

Though, it's difficult to when he opens the door and you're staring up at him with so much fury in your eyes. 

“Did you seriously fucking lock me—” You're interrupted in the middle of cussing Jack out by him slamming the door shut behind him, locking it. “What the fuck is your—!”

He hits the button on the remote and you are immediately shocked much harsher than earlier!

“Stop, stop, it hurts!” You cry out and Jack hits the button again, stopping it. 

“Are you going to be a good girl or not?” He asks you, standing over you. 

“Please take the collar off.” You can't wear this any longer. 

It feels like it's burning a hole in your neck… 

“I asked you a question.” He hovers his finger over the button and basks in the fear that strikes in you. 

“I-I will be.” You swallow your pride. “Just please take it off.” 

“I will.” Jack says, his eyes locked on yours. “In a week.”

“What?!” You can't wear this thing for a week!

“If you can be a good girl for a week, then I'll take it off. But the moment you do anything bad, we add another week. Understood?” 

You want to scream at him. You want to beat the shit out of him. 

But the collar is metal. No unlocking mechanism. Specially made. 

Jack is the only one who knows how to unlock it. And it can shock you much worse than the low levels he has been hitting you with. 

You can see it in his eyes. He wants you to disobey him. He wants you to give him an excuse to keep that collar on you longer.

You can't let him win. 

But you need a guarantee. “Do you promise if I'm a good girl to take off the collar?” 

“Yes, dear.” And as a sign of good faith, he kneels down in front of you and pops the collar off, to prove that he can. “You can go without it while we're in your room. But you're putting it back on if you want to leave. The door won't open otherwise.”

Jack invites you to try to unlock the door. It won't budge. Then, he walks over and snaps the collar back on you and suddenly, the door can be opened. 

“In case you get any ideas.” He whispers low in your ear, causing shivers to go straight down your spine when he reveals, “it'll shock you hard enough to kill you if you try anything, like run away or tell anyone about it. I wouldn't risk it.” 

“I won't.” You know he's being serious. 

Only a crazy man would lock his pseudo-niece in a basement and put a shock collar around her neck. 

And you won't provoke a crazy man.

You just need to survive whatever he has in store for you for the week. 

Then, you'll be free. 

But the perversion starts sooner than you thought it would. 

It starts at breakfast. 

Jack makes you sit on his lap while you eat. You have to pretend you don't feel how hard he is beneath you as you scarf down your food because you're so hungry. You have to ignore how his hands are resting on your thighs, sliding up and down, making you feel so small given the sheer size of his hands. 

“My niece eats so well.” Jack says against the shell of your ear before nipping at it with his teeth. “Did that food taste good?” 

You don't understand why you're getting wet from this. You shouldn't. You should feel fucking disgusted. 

You can't let your discomfort show so you answer, “yes, Uncle Jack. Thank you for cooking for me.” 

“Look at me.” He has you turn and face him. “Kiss me if you're really thankful.” 

“W-What?” You stammer out. 

Why would you kiss—

“Kiss me or I'll add another week to your training.” He threatens and you stiffen up. 

Then, you lean in and kiss him on the cheek. “Thank you, Uncle Jack.” 

“Straddle my lap facing me.” He snaps at you to do so. 

You listen, even though you don't want to. You feel so icky having your chest pressed against his, with his hard cock pushing up against you. 

He cups your face, making you look at him before he leans in and kisses you. You don't want to kiss him back.

But then he says against your lips, “don't make me do it.” 

And you kiss him back right away.

Jack smiles against your lips, kissing you nice and sloppy. You hate it. You hate it so fucking much. 

Because your body is getting hot all over. 

You don't get why you're reacting to him. Your pussy is aching to be touched. It doesn't help that he keeps grinding his hips, making you fully aware of how big his cock is, how good it would feel buried deep inside of you. 

Fuck, fuck, fuck. You can't be thinking this. 

You can't—

“You're so wet.” Jack's words are warm on your lips and horribly degrading. “I can feel you soaking my sweats.” 

You look down. There's no way… 

You are that wet. You can feel your slick through your flimsy sleep shorts, the fabric doing nothing to keep in how turned on you are.

You shouldn't be this attracted to your uncle! 

Something is going on. There has to be an explanation… 

“Uncle Jack, what did you do to me?” You're scared of whatever this is. 

“I didn't do anything bad to you, dear.” He gives you a kiss on the forehead that provides no comfort.

“But you did something.” You want to know what it is. 

“Do you want me to show you what I did?” Jack would be happy to. 

You bite your lip, nervous. 

What are you about to get yourself into if you agree? 

But you have to know…

“Okay.” You say with a nod. 

Jack stands up then, carrying you by your thighs. You have to cling onto him as he takes you to his bed, dropping you on the edge. 

You prop yourself on your elbows when you see Jack kneel down in front of you before tugging off your shorts and underwear in one swift motion. 

You should tell him to stop. Yell at him to get away from you. Not let him spread your thighs apart and—

Your eyes roll back in your head when his tongue swirls around your clit perfectly. Too perfectly. He knows exactly the right pace, pressure, rhythm to get you close to an orgasm. 

Then, he stops right before you get there. You squirm in his hold, his hands holding your thighs apart so you can't rub them together and make yourself cum. 

“Does my niece want to cum?” Jack asks then drags his tongue along the length of your slit, making your whole body shake with need. “It looks like you do.” 

“Uncle Jack…” Why do you want him to make you cum? 

This is the same guy that literally just put a shock collar on you and locked you in your room!

“What do you want, dear?” He flicks your clit once, as a tease. “Use your words. What do you want your uncle to do for you?”

You can't feed into this. You can't! 

This is wrong! 

But your pussy is throbbing. You're desperate to cum. 

You want to so badly… 

“I want my uncle to make me cum.” You tell him before covering your face with your hands, hiding how embarrassed you are. 

You can't hide for long. Because Jack starts ravaging you with his tongue, playing with your clit exactly the way you need him to until you're screaming and moaning into your palms, cumming hard. 

Jack loves it. Loves finally getting to hear you be vocal. You're awake and enjoying his touch, albeit with a touch of humiliation. 

He leans into it for your sake. “My niece just came so hard on my tongue. Do you like how I'm going down on you?” 

You nod into your hands, unable to admit it out loud. It feels too good. Your body is still reeling from that first orgasm that you aren't ready for him to dive back in and start sucking on your clit.

“Wait, Uncle Jack!” You cry out when he thrusts two fingers inside of you, the wet sounds filling the room. “Stop, stop, I'm going to cum again!” 

He nearly chuckles at that. How cute. You have no idea how many times he can make you cum before your body is unable to take it anymore. You're barely at your limits. 

Jack can push you to the very edge, make you cum like crazy. And he needs to, now that you're awake to fully react to it. 

His cock wants to burst out of his sweats when you squirt on his fingers the moment he curls them inside of you just right. He loves that bashful expression on your face, so full of shock that you came that hard. 

“How was that, dear? That must've felt amazing.” Jack pulls his fingers out of you so he can taste you. 

You watch him in such a daze, not understanding how he knows your body so well. 

Like, how does he know that his cock can fit so easily inside of you? 

You can't even process it quick enough. Jack just climbs on top of you and then sinks his cock inside of you. He hilts without any resistance from you.

And you cum so hard when he does. 

The moment the tip of his cock kisses your womb, you cum all of a sudden, just like he trained you to. 

Your pussy wraps around his cock so well. Jack knows exactly how to thrust inside of you to get you gasping for air. 

“Uncle Jack, what's going on!” You're so confused because you shouldn't be taking his huge cock this easily, especially not your first time ever having sex. 

“We're having sex.” He states the obvious, rolling his hips against yours, making your whole body shudder in response. 

“B-But it's my first time.” Isn't it supposed to hurt? 

“It is your first time.” Jack tells you. It's your first time awake, so he's not technically lying. 

“But your cock is—” Your words are cut off by a moan when he pounds into you deeper all of a sudden. 

“You like your uncle's cock, don't you?” He keeps up his quicker pace until you're squirting all over his cock with every thrust. “That's it, dear. Cum lots for me.” 

He doesn't have to tell you to. Your body is well trained already. It's just your mind that's growing fuzzy from the pleasure you're finally experiencing while alert. 

By the time Jack finally cums inside of you, you're a fucking mess on his bed, your body still convulsing and cumming even after he's pulled his cock out of you. 

And it only gets worse when he tells you, “you're due for your birth control shot but I don't think I'll give it to you.” 

“Uncle Jack…” You're having a hard time processing what he must've done to you in your sleep. 

“If you're a good girl and you aren't pregnant by the end of the week, I'll administer it.” He lays down beside you, patting your head. “But only then.” 

You look up at him when his hand slides from the top of your head to cup your cheek, the warmth of his palm disturbing given how comforting it feels. You shouldn't lean into his touch. 

So, you lean into his lips instead, when he presses them against yours and you don't stop yourself from kissing him back. 

You reason it's because you have to. You obviously don't want to kiss him. You don't want him to pull your body close to him and hold you. But he does and you submit. 

Jack smiles against your lips, liking the lack of resistance. No matter what happens this week, his goal is to make it so you can't live without him. 

Because he can't live without you. 

You're unsure if you're lucky that it's spring break this week. It's probably good because then you don't have to explain to your classmates why you're wearing a scarf when it's warm outside. But it's bad because your uncle takes the whole week off so he can continue his slow torture of your body. 

To test just how far you'll let him go, Jack has you on a leash now in his house. 

When he tells you to sit, you sit. Usually on his lap or at his feet while the two of you watch TV in the living room. He always has you on his lap for meals. You don't even remember when he started resting his cock inside of you while the two of you ate. 

But you do remember how hard you came when he played with your clit as you were trying to cut up the food on your plate. 

Now he does it every meal...

“Aren't you a spoiled pet?” Jack teases you more, pinching your clit, making you jolt in his lap, driving his cock deeper into you. “You should focus on eating.” 

You hate when he tells you to focus. It means he's going to edge you to the brink of insanity. And now that you're aware of the kind of pleasure he can give you, it truly is torture to have to hold it in. 

Jack likes edging you, though. Your pussy tightens up around him, squeezing him so desperately, wanting to cum so badly. He finds it amusing. He never thought he'd have so much fun with a pet before. 

“Finish your plate, dear.” Jack slides his other hand to your lower belly, kneading you right there. “You need fuel if you're going to have pups, you know.” 

There's something so degrading about the way he's treating you like a dog. But you have to listen. 

Because it's only when you're a good girl that he breeds you like an animal.

Jack shoves your plate across the table once you're done to clear space. Then, before you can have a moment to brace yourself, he slams you down onto it chest first and starts pounding into your pussy from behind exactly how you need him to. 

The orgasms that always roll through you when he has edged you then finally lets you cum has you shaking, your legs wobbling, your knees buckling, your body barely able to hold itself up. 

Jack has his hands firmly gripping your hips as he fucks you through your orgasm, reveling in how easily you cum on his cock over and over again. He loves the sound of you moaning his name. You don't tell him it's too much for you anymore. You just take it like a good girl. 

“My dearest niece loves being bred by her uncle, doesn't she?” Jack smiles when your pussy tenses up at his question and then you burst, squirting all over his cock in response. “You're dripping onto the floor. We'll have to get you some puppy pads, huh?” 

As if this isn't humiliating enough… 

From that moment forward, any time Jack fucks you anywhere that isn't in bed, he lays a puppy pad down and makes you fully aware of how hard you've cum every time he touches you. And you aren't allowed to complain because you need to make it through this week. 

Just a few more days of him fingering you over a pad until you're squirting onto it. Just a few more days of him fucking you until you see stars and your womb is full of his release.

Just a few more days of him kissing you so softly, telling you how beautiful you are, cuddling you in bed, taking care of you like you really are a pet he adores. 

Just one more night and you'll be out of this collar. 

And then Jack will know if he has broken you or not.

“You've been very good, dear.” He pats you lovingly on the head while you're kneeling at his feet by the couch. “Just a little longer.” 

You chew on your bottom lip, not sure if you can last much longer...

Jack has you sitting on a puppy pad with beads in your ass and a vibrator buzzing on the lowest setting in your pussy. You want to cum but you can't. He turns off the vibrator every time you get close, like he does right now. But this time, he pulls it out of you, leaving you hollow inside.

“Get on all fours and turn your ass towards me.” He says with a snap and you listen like he's trained you to. “Good girl. I love seeing you wag your tail.” 

The beads that are tormenting your ass have a fluffy tail attached to the end of them. A tail Jack likes to grab a hold of and tug, popping a bead out of you just to watch you shake your ass. You nearly cum when he shoves it back in past your tight ring. 

This has been his favorite show to watch. You, naked, on your hands and knees, edged to the brink of insanity, your pussy aching to be filled with his cock until you cum as many times as your body will allow you to. 

Now, Jack wonders how much you like being his little pet. 

So, he slides his hand up and presses his finger over the biometric lock. Your collar comes right off then, much to your surprise. There's still a night left but he's taking it off early…

Then, Jack tells you, “you've done so well, dear. You're free to go now.” 

What? You turn back to look at him.

Your uncle gets up from the couch, going into his bedroom to put the collar away somewhere safe, leaving you there on all fours, wondering what you're supposed to do with yourself when you want to cum already. 

Are you allowed to cum? 

You're unsure.

Your body…doesn't know what to do. 

You need Jack to tell you what to do...

Wait, what! No, you don't!

You're not his pet. You don't need to wait for him to tell you what you can or can't do. 

So, why are you still waiting for him to come back? 

Fuck. You're fucked. 

Because why are you crawling to his room? 

Why are you happy when you see him smile when you get there? Why are you kneeling by his feet at the foot of his bed where he has been sitting, waiting for his pet to find him?

You're past the point of humiliation.

That's why you let him pat you on the head and say, “I knew you were a good girl.” 

And the slick between your legs grows in response. 

“Do you want your reward for being so good?” He pats the spot next to him. “You know what to do, dear.” 

You scramble onto the bed quicker than you intend, heat flooding your system when Jack laughs at how eager you are to get on all fours for him. He stands up then, pulling his clothes off until he's completely naked too. 

You try not to moan too loudly when you feel the tip of his cock gliding along the length of your wet slit, gathering your slick up so he can tease your throbbing clit. 

“Will you keep being good for your uncle?” Jack asks you and you nod right away, filling him with delight. “I need you to rub your clit but you can't cum, okay? I'll be right back.” 

Your fingers are on your clit the moment he moves away from you and you rub yourself until you're so close to bursting. That's when Jack comes back with the vibrator he had in your pussy earlier, handing it to you. 

“Turn it on when I tell you to.” He instructs and you nod, placing it against your clit, shivering with anticipation. 

Though, that might just be your reaction to him putting a new collar around your neck. A soft leather one, with a leash that he has wound around his fist. He yanks it back just a tad, as a test, and you nearly cum when he cuts off your air. 

Jack has really messed you up, hasn't he? 

“Don't cum until I kiss your womb, okay?” He waits for you to nod and then chuckles when you do so very eagerly. “That's my good girl. You'll get to cum a lot once I do, I promise.”

You don't hold in the moan when you feel Jack finally push his cock into you. But he is torturing you now, purposefully keeping his thrusts shallow so you're left clawing at the sheets, your body so tense that you could explode at any moment. 

“Please, Uncle Jack.” You finally allow yourself to beg. You haven't all week but since he doesn't have the shock collar on you anymore, you plead to him. “Please fuck me.” 

“I am fucking you, dear.” Jack knows he's tormenting you because you're wriggling, needing him to go deeper. “Tell me exactly what you want your uncle to do to you.” 

And it's like all the dignity you have left completely erodes away when you tell him, “please breed me, Uncle Jack.”

“My niece wants me to put a baby in her?” You can't see the devilish grin on his face but you know it's there. 

“Yes.” You answer and then repeat that word over and over again the moment he rams his cock inside of you and you're cumming all over him, your body bursting completely. 

“Turn it on now.” He commands and even in your daze, you know to listen. 

You flip on the vibrator and the vibrations hit your clit at the same time as the tip of his cock grinds against your womb and now you're squirting uncontrollably. 

“I should've made you lay down a pad if I knew you'd cum this much.” He says with a chuckle, liking how lost you are in your orgasm that you aren't even processing his degradation. “What a cute pet I have, wagging her tail for me.”

Jack wraps your tail around the same hand holding your leash and with the single tug, a bead pops out of your ass as your collar chokes you. You're swimming in a sea of stars, your vision going dark when you can no longer breathe. 

And the pleasure doesn't cease… 

He pulls out another bead, choking you harder, watching your body spasm beneath him, your pussy milking his cock beautifully. 

“Good girl.” His voice is soft and gentle compared to how harsh his actions are, keeping you from the air you need to survive. “Cum nice and hard for me, dear.” 

He shoves the beads back into your ass, the sudden rush of pressure winding you, the release of your leash allowing air to funnel back into your throat but it's caught there by how intense your orgasm shoots through you.

The sounds you're making aren't even human anymore. Just mumbles and whimpers and whines and cute little attempts at babbling his name. 

You've dug your nails into his sheets now, tearing into them as Jack puts his hands back on your hips, digging his nails into your flesh for leverage so he can slam every inch of his thick cock as deep as your body will let him go. The rhythm in which he's fucking you has you losing faith in your mind, in your ability to reason things through.

You're so far gone now. 

So consumed by your uncle. 

That when Jack asks you, “tell me you want to keep being my dearest pet and I'll keep breeding you just the way you like it.” 

Your mouth moves before your mind can stop it, “I want to be your pet, Uncle Jack.” 

“Flip over.” Jack slides his cock out of you, chuckling with amusement when you pout at him for leaving you feeling empty. “Come on, dear, I'll be inside of you again soon. Quickly now.” 

You lay down on your back and he pulls you until your legs are dangling off the edge of the bed. 

“Hold your knees up for me.” He takes the vibrator from you so you can pull your thighs as close to your body as you can. “Good girl. I can play with your tail this way.” 

Your eyes widen when his hand wraps back around your tail and his other hand holds the vibrator back on your clit. He smiles at the fear and excitement in your face. 

What a precious pet he has. 

The moment Jack slams his cock back inside of you, he tugs the beads out of your tail. Then, when he pulls his cock out of you, he pushes your tail back into place. All while the vibrator abuses your swollen and overstimulated clit. 

“Here, dear.” Jack sees the way you're biting down on your lip to stop yourself from screaming and grabs your leash. “Bite down on this instead.”

He stuffs as much of the leash into your mouth as he can until you're choking yourself from holding it in your mouth, your collar tightening around your throat. 

“You're going to cum so nicely now.” Jack moves his hand back to your tail. “Just focus on being a good pet niece for your uncle.” 

You've lost count of how many orgasms he forces out of you with this all consuming rhythm of his. The beads in your ass, the vibrations on your clit, the rough pounding of his cock against your womb, it's all too much.

And everything you've ever wanted. 

Almost everything. 

You spit the leash out of your mouth to beg, “please kiss me while you cum, Uncle Jack.” 

That almost ruins his rhythm but he catches himself before he seems too shocked. Then, he flips off the vibrator and yanks your tail completely out of your ass. Every bead popping out of your body sends shockwaves through you that distract you from him suddenly grabbing your face and kissing you, his hips rolling against yours at a harsher pace now. 

Jack is fucking you into the mattress like he has many times before. Only this time, you're fully awake for it. Only this time, you're kissing him back while he does it. 

You like how happy he is, smiling against your lips, groaning and grunting your name, telling you how perfect you are, how glad he is that he trained you so well. 

“My dearest pet niece.” He breathes against your lips, looking into your eyes with such affection. “Are you ready for your uncle's cum?” 

You nod, nuzzling his nose with your own playfully, acting so cute that he doesn't want this to end. “Please cum deep inside of me, Uncle Jack.” 

“I will.” He says before his lips are back on yours and you cum with him the moment you feel him fill you with that warmth you've grown addicted to. 

You're both left panting like animals, kissing in between breaths, unable to part from one another. Jack adores how you cling to him, holding him against you, wanting his comfort after getting fucked so hard. 

“I've got you, dear.” He pulls you onto your side so he can rub your back. “Take your time to cool down and we'll take a nice bath after this.” 

You smile happily into the crook of his shoulder, since you like taking baths with him. You like that you don't have to pretend that you don't like it anymore. 

You don't have to pretend you hate him anymore.

There's nothing wrong with enjoying life as your uncle's pet. 

He taught you that it's a good life to live. 

a/n: I wrote this bc I put together a new bed frame a while back and I needed a treat like a good pet deserves! 

hope you enjoyed the read ♡

[domdraven]

"I'm just a shy girl" and she's into being talked through it while she's being used like a toy

[demiene]

𐔌 cw: mild marital rape .ᐟ

your husband was not a bad man.

he did not raise his voice, save for those business calls that invariably left him rubbing his temples in sheer frustration, he had never raised a hand at you, not even when you tried to push away as he cornered you against the kitchen table, body pinned as your fingers gripped the spatula you had been using to stir the dinner

hand sliding beneath your undies, fingers, weathered from work, kneading into your skin as they crept to cup your cunt, only to find you dry “’m so tired, baby, just let me” he croons low, pressing heavy, sloppy kisses just beneath your ear, your hands flailing uselessly, eyes fixated on the bubbling pasta sauce.

he lay in a closed coffin, the surrounding cries and whispers reduced to the mere midge buzz in your ears, the dress feeling too tight, squeezing your shoulders, while every sympathetic pat on your spine brought a new suffocating wave, each more stifling than the last, a few tears forcing their way out your careworn eyes, leaving a bitter burn in your throat

one by one, the mourners began to drift away, family members, long not seen friends, women whose faces you didn’t recognize, among them simon, a man who had known your husband from the army, appearing with a visit perhaps once a year, if at all, blonde eyelashes fluttering upward as his gaze found yours from across, umber eyes barely blinking

taking in your mourning attire with a subtle tilt to his head, his balaclava exchanged for a simple cloth mask that now dangled from his ear, thin, nicked lips clamped around a burning cigarette, none recognized him, none could be seen pleased by his unsettling presence, imposing and broad shouldered, heavy combat boots caked in grime, rugged scars with mute signals that broadcast danger.

simon had helped you into his truck to take you home, thoroughly exhausted, drained from the endless questions, the lingering wailing noise, and the looming weight of the paperwork waiting to find its way to you, his palm steady and warm against your back

thick fingers surprisingly deft as he reached over to buckle your seat belt, driving off abruptly the moment your mother in law approached, poised to ask what you planned to do with your late husband's belongings, a man of little patience, and he knew you had endured more than enough today

intent to have your thoughts away from the tragedy, and doing so flawlessly, your tight dress ripped in jagged line at it's hem, panties tucked aside to let him grind into your sopping wet cunt, fluttering restlessly around the gorged girth that stretches your tight hole out, his fingertips as calloused as your husband’s, but much more attentive

counting your ribs with slow wonder, trapping your swollen clit under rough circles, you're dripping all over your trembling thighs and his pants, his cock carving it's place within you, the bite undisguised, voice a husky drawl “he wasn't' even worth a nail from yauh littl' finger” against your tender skin, where he pressed demanding kisses, crooked nose nuzzling into your sternum.

main masterlist. quidelines.