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Who am I? – Poppy. she/they. Adult. bisexual trash gremlin w/ a caffeine addiction. @gloomwitchtales is my personal blog.
ao3 // personal tumblr
Missed Hints (Thorin Oakenshield x Female Reader)
Misunderstanding (Thorin Oakenshield x Female Reader)
Mint & Stone (Thorin Oakenshield x Female Reader) ... coming soon
Rainy Reunion (Aragorn x Female Reader)
Burnt Bread (Éomer x Female Reader)
Gentle Dark (Haldir x Female Reader)
A Sudden Spark (Éomer x Female Reader)
We Won’t Be Missed (Legolas x Female Elf Reader)
An Unexpected Catch Masterlist (Boromir x Female Reader)
Circling Stardust Masterlist (CT-7567: Rex x OFC)
Taste Test (Boba Fett x Reader)
Untitled Din Djarin ... coming soon
Untitled Hunter (Bad Batch) ... coming soon
Dark Knowledge Masterlist (Miraak x Hermaeus Mora x Female Reader)
Ink & Needle Masterlist (Simon "Ghost" Riley x Female Reader)
Dangerous Pursuit Masterlist (Captain John Price x Female Reader)
Imagines & What If Main Masterlists: Primary // Secondary
Devil Bone (Simon "Ghost" Riley x Female Reader)
Flint (Kyle "Gaz" Garrick x Female Reader)
Locker Room: Part One // Part Two // Simon's POV (Simon "Ghost" Riley x Female Reader)
Great Wyrm; Red Mountain (Simon "Ghost" Riley x John "Soap" MacTavish
Revenge is a Glory Hole (Task Force 141 x Female Reader)
Second Act Masterlist (Task Force 141 Masked Metal Band AU)
A Brute, Brute Heart Masterlist (Simon "Ghost" Riley x Female Reader)
Dog with No Teeth Masterlist (Simon "Ghost" Riley x Female Reader)
The Bloody Devils Masterlist (John Price x Female Reader)
Holly Springs Masterlist (Task Force 141 Hallmark AU)
Headcanon, AUs, Quick Writes Masterlist
Winter 2023 Collection Masterlist
Fluffuarry 2024 Masterlist (Star Wars Edition)
Spring 2024 Collection Masterlist
Summer 2024 Collection Masterlist
1k Follower Event Masterlist
3.5k Follower Spooky Bingo Masterlist
10k Follower Event Masterlist
Kinktober 2024 Masterlist
Kinktober 2025 Masterlist
Kinkmas 2024 Masterlist
profile picture: taken & edited by gloomwitchwrites
profile banner: taken & edited by gloomwitchwrites (oracle cards from Threads of Fate)
While observing a Yautja mating ritual, you enter the forest where the chase is taking place, expecting to observe and record in your science logbook. Little do you know that entering is a form of consent, and there is only one Yautja willing to protect you from the others.
ao3 // main masterlist // scientific guide masterlist
Scratch. Scratch. Scratch.
“That’s not right,” you mutter, erasing the error.
Field work requires hands and hard tools. Paper and pencil are tangible, holds you present, keeps you focused. They’re also the only tools you have, the rest confiscated when you landed on Yautja Prime, greeted by a Yautja clan that weren’t even the tiniest bit amused to see you.
You weren’t armed. Not a threat. Unworthy prey.
They were rightly pissed you arrived on their homeworld, but thought it better to keep you when you opened your mouth and Yautja followed. Your fluency in Yautja only went so far. They were curious but also suspicious, made worse by the Weyland-Yutani ship you arrived on.
Studying Xenoanthropology in school opened the door to employment with the Weyland-Yutani Corporation. They admired your observations about different alien species, offered you a job, sent you off-world to a colonized star system, on a planet that never saw the sun because of industrial pollution caused by Weyland-Yutani mining operations.
Your job landed you in the research labs, in front of Yautja technology. The Company told you all they wanted was to expand their cultural knowledge on the species, but when you were shown the Yautja ship, asking you to decode and translate the information contained within, you knew then that they didn’t care about Yautja culture. They wanted information. They wanted to find their homeworld.
And being the spontaneous idiot that you are, you did the exact opposite. Destroyed the labs, destroyed their research, destroyed the ship. Erased it all and fled, stealing the coordinates for yourself.
You can’t go home. You can’t return to any world or star system that’s been colonized by humans. Weyland-Yutani is looking for you.
A gentle blow, a rounding of the lips, and the grit of graphite disappears from the page. Angling the notebook toward the light, you glance between it and your point of study.
“Could be worse,” you sigh, returning the notebook to your lap. “Could be better.”
On the page are two sketches, each of a Yautja torso. One female and the other male. Anatomy was never your subject, but it’s still important to document, and here, witnessing this cultural ritual, gives you a clear view of their naked bodies. Trust, built over months, is the only reason you’re currently perched on a tree stump with notebook in hand.
A clan matriarch is in heat, ready to mate, but more than one male has caught her eye. Eight yards away from where you sit are a group of male Yautja, five in total. They’re naked except for a stripe of paint on their arms, each a different color designating what subset of the clan they’re from. Females spearhead each clan, typically the strongest amongst their number. When a female Yautja is in heat, her choice must come from a different clan. Like humans, they do not inbreed, the practice causing unfavored genetic traits.
The female Yautja in question, Ahra, is separated from the males, surrounded by other females, their tendrils gray. They are elders, deeply respected and cared for. You focus on her muscled limbs, returning to your sketch, erasing lines and redrawing for emphasis. Tongue between your teeth, you concentrate on the transition from torso to chest to shoulder.
A soft crunch of grass comes from behind you. You quickly turn, finding no one. Frowning, you slowly return to your notebook, only for large hands to yank it from your grasp.
“Bhatul! What are you doing?”
Bhatul, the only Yautja you’ve formed a true connection with, holds your notebook in front of him with both hands, head cocked, black quills falling over one shoulder, several decorated with gold rings. He’s a mix of dusty red, tan, and black spots, common for the members of his clan that live in the warmer, drier regions of Yautja Prime with a healthy amount of smaller quills on his arms and chest.
Using one hand, he turns the notebook around. “Me?” he asks, indicating the half-complete male diagram.
“And what if it is?” you counter, crossing your arms over your chest.
He chuffs. “You show truth. I am strong. Virile.”
The back of your neck grows hot. With you sitting on the tree stump, and him standing in front of you, naked, you have a clear view of his penis. It’s directly in front of your face.
“That’s not—” you begin.
“Do you think she will mate with me?” asks Bhatul.
“Ahra?” Bhatul inclines his head. “Isn’t it a contest?”
“Yes,” nods Bhatul. “We chase. Subdue. Mount.”
“All of you?”
Bhatul huffs, affronted. “A female Yautja has only one—”
You throw up your hands. “Yes. I know. I can see that.” You turn your head in Ahra’s direction. “Quite clearly.”
Bhatul tosses the notebook back to you. You catch it, nearly falling off the stump from the force behind the throw. “You will not enter the forest.”
“Excuse me?”
He steps forward and kneels, bringing him eye-level. “I know you. Too curious.” Bhatul lifts his hand, imitating a head opening and closing its mouth. “Talking.” He changes to two fingers that walk along an invisible surface. “Following.”
You roll your eyes. “You tell me to follow. And I have to.”
“Yes,” he agrees. “Makes other Yautja jealous.”
“Jealous?” you deadpan.
“You are…pet. Other Yautja want pet.”
Unbelievable. You’d pull on one of his mandibles but that would only rile him up more than he already is. Bhatul enjoys pushing your buttons, but it’s never mean. He was the first to approach you without an ulterior motive, to ask questions and answer yours in return. A friend, you suppose.
“So, what?” you laugh. “I’m your dog?”
Bhatul snorts, his mandibles flexing. “Dog?” he repeats slowly, the human word sounding odd in his mouth.
Since arriving, you’ve only spoken Yautja, but write your research in your native language. There are no mandibles for you to use, and the mouth structures are different, but they understand, even when you butcher their words.
“It’s an animal,” you say, switching back to Yautja. “A common pet for humans. Fluffy. Friendly. Cuddles with you. Follows you around.”
Bhatul nods. “You are dog.”
You punch Bhatul in the arm. He makes a rattling, chuffing sound you’ve come to know as the closest thing the Yautja have to laughter.
The first time you heard it, you had asked Bhatul if Yautja only see in infrared as research suggests.
“No,” he had said, tapping a finger close to his eye. “We have a gland. Links to our eyes. Helps us see body heat. Good for hunting.”
“And what if you’re not hunting?”
“The gland isn’t active.” He had leaned in, gaze observing your entire body in a slow perusal. “I can see you clearly.”
You punch Bhatul again. “Are you serious?”
“You follow me around.”
You keep hitting him. “You ask me to. Why do I have to repeat myself?”
Bhatul grabs your wrist, drawing your hand away from his massive bicep. Instead of releasing your wrist, he continues to hold it, staring into your eyes with an intensity that makes your stomach drop. It’s been happening more and more this look.
“I like your company,” he says, his already gruff, guttural voice deepening. “You ask questions.”
“I ask too many.”
“You do.” He drops your hand but doesn’t stand. “Don’t enter the forest.” And then he’s up, heading toward the male Yautja clustered nearby.
Technically, you’re supposed to listen and obey. You are human, not Yautja. You were not given the same rights or privileges. While in most circumstances, you’d listen to Bhatul, this might be your only opportunity.
With his back to you, you pack up your notebook and grab your satchel, easing into the tree line until the large leaves provide enough coverage to hide you. These are not hunting grounds, and the only predators are the Yautja.
Kneeling behind a tree, you carefully observe Ahra dashing into the trees, the males fanning out, the same amount of distance between each. You count the seconds from when Ahra enters the forest until the males takes off. Not all of them follow in her footsteps. Several branch off, splitting away from the main group, adding distance as they pass the tree line. One of the larger males charges in your direction, his speed immeasurably fast, almost a blur to your eye.
You throw yourself to the ground as he leaps. Above you, the tree violently shakes as he lands and pushes off, jumping to another. Hand over mouth, you wait until you cannot see him and the trees come to rest.
Slowly, you ease onto your knees, grabbing the tree to help haul you up to your feet. One step. Two. There is no rush, no need to run after them. It’ll only draw attention, and the point is to observe, not get in the way. You’ll keep back, follow at a distance, observe what you can, and record it all in your notebook. Bhatul will fill in the blanks.
Keeping to a crouch, you shift between the trees, listening for unusual sounds, watching for any movement. There is the wind, the occasional snapping of a twig, the buzz of insects, or a call of a bird. You’re not entirely sure what you’re listening for except the guttural grunts of mating.
You come to a stop. “What the fuck am I doing?” you groan, rubbing at your temples.
Observing a ritual of a secretive alien species that no one outside the species has seen? An amazing opportunity. Stumbling onto Yautja having sex? Less cool. In fact, not ideal.
Turning around, you take a step, intending to return the way you came. You’re mid-stride, determined, and then you’re flying, scooped off your feet by a large, powerful force. The impact is sudden and hard, temporarily pushing the air from your lungs, shoving you into a bout of dizziness.
Everything spins as you cling to whatever’s grabbed you, attempting to breathe through every jolt and jerk, yanked along like a children’s doll. Your captor lands, the impact shaking your bones. The hold around you loosens until you roll out of their embrace and onto the ground.
“I told you not to enter the forest.”
You turn onto your back, inhaling deeply through your nose, and exhaling through your mouth. You repeat the process until your hands stop shaking and there is no threat of falling if you stand.
You crack open your eyelids, staring up into Bhatul’s grim expression. “I’m observing. That’s what I do.”
He chuffs, mandibles flexing in agitation. “You do not understand.”
You prop yourself on your elbows. “Explain then.” Groaning, you sit up fully, rubbing at your neck and lower back. “Not like you said anything to begin with,” you mutter.
Bhatul releases a guttural snarl, quills swishing as he starts to pace. “This is a mating ritual. You are female.”
No shit you big idiot.
Slowly, you ease onto your knees, placing your palm against a nearby slab of rock to help ease the ascent. “I’m not Yautja. It doesn’t matter.”
Bhatul whirls on you, approaching with such ferocity you hit the rock in your attempt to back away. “It does matter. You are human but you are female.” He reaches out, one finger lightly tracing the side of your throat. “You give off a scent. Different from female Yautja. But we know it all the same.”
“You—you know—”
Bhatul leans in. “I smell it all the time.”
Female Yautja produce a specific pheromone when in heat, a signal to the males that she’s in her fertile window. Males don’t become senseless beasts. The instinct to reproduce heightens, and their behavior changes. They want to impress, to show the female their strength, that they are good providers and protectors, the fiercest hunter.
Humans don’t produce sex pheromones, but body odor can change, especially for people with female reproductive organs. Body odor can shift during different cycle stages because of hormone changes, but those changing odors don’t trigger sudden behavioral changes in other humans.
But Bhatul isn’t human. Yautja sense of smell is far stronger. What might be a mild shift in odor to you could be a beacon to him. You hadn’t considered it.
“What do you smell?” you ask tentatively.
Bhatul remains where he is. The space between your bodies is nonexistent. You are small and fragile compared to Bhatul’s height and broadness. He easily stands at two and a half meters. You have to bend your neck at a hard angle to look up at him.
“Sweet. Musky. Earthy.” He steps back. “You’re fertile.”
The urge to slap Bhatul increases by the second. You’d do it, too, if only you could reach his stupid face.
“But we can’t. Yautja and humans aren’t compatible.” Bhatul’s silence rings in your ears. He only stares, which makes it worse. “Bhatul.”
As much as Yautja look like monsters, their eyes are deep pools of expression. Bhatul’s gaze cuts through you, twisting your stomach with staunch clarity.
“Humans are worthy prey. They have killed many of our kind. They have skills we lack,” says Bhatul calmly.
You lick your lips, swallowing hard. “Bridge the gap.”
“What gap needs a bridge?” he huffs, glancing around as if one will appear.
“No,” you laugh, some of the anxiety ebbing. “It’s a human expression. It means closing a divide or reducing differences.” You bring your hands together, interlocking your fingers. “Adding the advantages to your species makes you better predators.”
Bhatul nods. “This is why you cannot enter the forest.”
“If I knew—”
“When Ahra is subdued and mating, the other males will follow your scent. Hunt you down. Fight each other for the chance to breed you.” You place your hands below his chest. It’s the easiest spot you can reach. Pushing against Bhatul does nothing to move him or shift you away, not with the slab of rock at your back.
“You walked in willingly.” Bhatul grasps your wrists, drawing your attention to his face. “That is consent. That you want to mate.”
“Take me back. Out of the forest.”
Bhatul shakes his head, his quills swaying. “Leaving will not change things.”
Prior anxiety returns, overwhelming and overloading. Your hands shake. “I don’t want this. I—” Bhatul’s head whips to the right, mandibles flexing, his forked tongue extending slightly to taste the air. “What?” you prompt. “What is it?”
“They’re approaching.” Bhatul’s attention returns to you. “Remove your clothes.”
“No!”
His next words come with a snarl. “It is me or them.”
Maybe if you close your eyes and curl up into a ball, this will all go away. You’ll backtrack, exit the forest, remain on your stump until the whole ceremony is over.
Bhatul, as if sensing your distress, relaxes a fraction. “Do you think I’ll harm you?”
No. I’m just scared.
You shake your head. “No. Not you.”
“I will fight them,” he reassures, “but it’s better to mate.”
A sad smile crosses your lips. “Accepting the mating means I’ve chosen.”
“Yes.”
“Will it stop them from fighting you?”
Bhatul shrugs. “There is always one male that fights.”
“Okay,” you sigh, shuddering. “Okay.”
You’re barely out of your clothes before Bhatul flattens you onto your back on the rock slab. Stretching out, his large frame covers the majority of your body, his weight balanced to keep you in place but not crush. Bhatul’s thick arms cocoon your head, his chin and the bottom of his mandibles brushing lightly against your scalp as he shifts.
Glancing down between your bodies, your heart drops into your stomach. At the tree stump, you received an up front and personal view of Yautja dick from Bhatul and the other males strutting around, chests puffed up as they flaunted for Ahra. What rests against your thigh isn’t some appendage swinging between their legs. This is supposed to go inside you.
Gulping, you press your face into Bhatul’s chest, hands grasping for a hold as he shifts his hips, his cock pressing against your pussy. Looking is impossible. You refuse. All you need to do is stay still for him and it will all be over sooner than you think. Bhatul will protect you from the other males. He won’t hurt you. He said so, but it’s his actions that yell over his words, the lack of aggression over these long months. Bhatul is fearsome. You’ve seen him spar with the other males, but there is none of that with you. Never.
Reaching down, Bhatul fists the base of his cock. As he pumps, large beads of opalescent semen emerge from the slit. Bhatul pumps and shakes, rubbing it all over your pussy. Every time the head of his cock brushes your clit, you bite back a moan.
Does he even know it’s there? Do female Yautja have one, perhaps something similar, or nothing at all?
“Makes penetration easier,” he says, voice low and gruff. The words come from his mouth, but even you understand the primal switch. Yautja males are not much different from human men.
Nuzzling his neck, you inhale deeply, counting down slowly to relax your muscles in anticipation. Bhatul’s response is rolling clicks that remind you of purring. It’s then that the head of him penetrates, a tight stretch that yanks a gasp from you. He thrusts deeper, and this time you crack, choking on a sob as the ribbed shaft rubs deliciously inside you.
Bhatul’s mandibles flex, that pleased clicking returning. “You are different,” he manages, before a loud crunch of breaking wood fills the air.
You freeze, a sudden chill seizing your limbs as Bhatul shifts into the predator he is. The position he takes is defensive but it is also a threat, bleeding aggression at the Yautja looking on. This male is the largest of the group, Ob-Adtoth, if you recall correctly. His skin is pale and yellowish with sections of dark mottling on the sides of his arms and legs. One mandible fang is missing. In its place is a metallic, artificial replacement. Behind him, you notice two other males, approaching slowly, keeping to the trees.
Go away. Go away.
You repeat it internally, pressing as much as yourself as you can to Bhatul’s chest. His embrace tightens, and while you cannot see his face, you can hear him.
There were times when you sat and watched some of the warriors in the practice rings, sparring for the sake of training. On observation, you took their roars for battle cries. They didn’t scare you, only amused you.
Bhatul’s roar in response to Ob-Adtoth’s does not amuse you. Almost otherworldly, the sound that emerges from him silences the forest, shakes the rock beneath you, ignites that innate flight response. It is a bloodied knife. Lethal force. A violent fist. Bhatul is marking his territory, warning the other males away.
Ob-Adtoth steps forward. Bhatul grasps the back of your head, forcing it back, exposing your neck. This is where you fight of flee, to escape danger though the threat is impossible to run from. Ob-Adoth’s mandibles flare wide but so do Bhatul’s.
Not with a roar. Not with anger.
Resting between his mandibles is your exposed neck. His teeth, each one a sharpened needle, touch your skin but do not break the barrier. The coppery tang of human blood is absent. It does not pool in Bhatul’s mouth or clog your throat. Nothing for him to swallow, and nothing for you to choke on.
Ob-Adoth’s chest puffs, shoulders squaring like he’s ready to charge. Bhatul lowers himself over your body, creating a protective shell. His hips shift back, his thick cock drawing out. It’s the thrust forward that has your eyes rolling, your little human teeth biting into Bhatul’s rough skin as he ruts.
Pain is absent. All you know is pleasure. It builds in thunderous waves, crashing against your skull, drowning. The forest is a distant thing, absent from your current reality. Between your legs is wetness, a fullness that borders on bursting, each thrust echoing in your stomach, until it feels like Bhatul is in your throat.
The orgasm is a severing. A snapped twig. The building pressure peaks, and then expands outward, temporarily stealing your breath and voice. Your body shudders, heart hammering, and then you’re moaning, bordering on screaming, the sound muffled as you bite harder into Bhatul’s skin. You vaguely notice bright green as your head falls back; Bhatul’s mandibles still locked around your throat.
Bhatul’s pace increases, and you ragdoll, unable to do much else. You don’t know if the other males still linger in the trees, or if they’re watching, waiting for him to finish, to strike out when they think he’s most vulnerable.
His arms, which were once a protective cocoon, lift you off the rock, bringing your bodies flush. Bhatul is no longer thrusting, only panting, his cock inside you but still. His mandibles flex, releasing your throat.
You turn your head, survey the forest. “They’re gone.”
Bhatul slowly withdraws his cock, and with it comes a rush of cum. He gently flips you onto your stomach, taking position again, easing his cock into your cunt until your toes curl and you whimper.
“No,” he says. “Maybe.” Your cheek meets cool rock, hands reaching to grasp the edges of the slab. Bhatul begins again. “I must mark what’s mine.”
The Scientific Guide to Yautja Breeding: An Anthology
@gloomwitchwrites and @the-californicationist in collaboration
Recovered from a derelict research vessel, these logs contain the experiences of six scientists who vanished into deep space, leaving behind fractured accounts of their first contact: impossible pregnancies, ritual practices, and whispered confessions about the Yautja hunters they loved and followed willingly into the stars.
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
I've only really shared follower milestones, but Dog with No Teeth just hit a big milestone on AO3, surpassing 100,000 hits, and I need to share it because I'm overwhelmed (but also over the moon and grateful because omg???)
i think it'd be kind of an interesting twist if the shephard daughter reader from the glory hole turns out to have hated her father's fucking guts maybe even more than TF141 does
maybe that energy could be channeled productively. we rarely get non-con aftermaths so i'd love your take... 👉👈
I have no plans to continue Revenge is a Glory Hole however I do love the idea of reader hating her father's gut, maybe staying with TF 141 (either voluntarily or by force - I mean, the pregnancy and all...) So the question is, how far is reader willing to go in fucking over her father?
ao3 // main masterlist // imagines & what if masterlist
John Price
“This for me?” John saunters over to the bed, absently rubbing his hairy chest. “And above the sheets?”
“No,” you warn, because you know that look. You know what John is up to. “Don’t think about it. Not tonight.”
He cocks an eyebrow, all flirty mischievousness. “Have I done something?”
“No,” you repeat. “It’s hot. And you’re a furnace. You’ll get me sweaty.”
It’s the wrong thing to say.
John dives at the bed, crushing you beneath him. “Doesn’t have to be a cuddle, love. Could do something rigorous.”
You twist, evading a kiss. “Stop poking me with your dick.”
Kyle "Gaz" Garrick
You and Kyle lay on your backs, staring at the ceiling. Overhead, the ceiling fan whips up a breeze but offers little to alleviate the heat. Worst heat wave in the last decade. That’s what they’re saying.
“I know,” you reply. “I hate it, too.”
The pillows are gone, bed stripped down to the fitted sheet. Both of you are freshly showered and naked, and still you’re sweating. Kyle’s arm shifts, the side of his hand brushing against yours. Your index fingers connect, hook around each other. Sweat immediately accompanies it.
Kyle reaches for his phone. “I’m ordering another fan.”
John "Soap" MacTavish
“Johnny,” you grumble, half-asleep.
His hand pauses on your bare hip. “Can’t touch you?”
“Too hot,” you mumble. “How are you not hot?”
The bedding is tossed aside, pushed to the edges of the bed. It’s the middle of the night but feels like the middle of the day. Has been for weeks. A goddamn heatwave.
Beside you, the bed shifts. “Not even a hand?”
“No.”
“What about a finger?”
“No.”
Johnny sits up onto his elbow. “A tit?” You open one eye and glare. “A quick squeeze?”
“Fine,” you mutter, relenting. “But only one tit. And only one squeeze.”
Simon "Ghost" Riley
Sleeping naked under the covers isn’t an option. It’s disgustingly hot out. If you just lay here, on your stomach and above the covers, naked, unmoving, you’ll cool off. You just can’t move. You can’t—
A hand comes down on your ass in a sharp, stinging slap.
You bolt up, startled. “What the fuck, Simon? I’m trying to sleep.”
Your husband stands next to the bed, hand still raised like he’s aiming for another. He shrugs. “Couldn’t help myself.”
You roll your eyes but Simon is settling beside you anyway, handsy as always.
His mouth tastes of it, teeth gritty, tongue dry and without moisture. It puffs out his nose and mouth with each exhalation, filtering through the holes in his helmet. The lands themselves are not ashen, the grass is still green, the animals come and go, but there are no humans here. Not anymore.
In the shadow of Red Mountain, the farms sit empty, the towns ransacked, the roads overgrown with weeds and broken stone. Ash falls from the sky, dissolving into the ground, absorbed and forgotten as if enchanted, sticking to nothing except his lungs and his tongue and the back of his throat.
In the shadow of Red Mountain, John MacTavish, knight to The King, journeys alone.
Those sent to Red Mountain never return. No trace of their bones, no hint of weapon or shield. Gone and vanished. Unknown in fate or fortune. This, too, may be his fate. There is no one else to go, no one left to face The Great Wyrm.
At the base of the mountain, where flat land meets rising slope, Johnny pauses, staring up into the sky. Historical records, the ones Johnny read by single candle flame in the church archives, say that Red Mountain has not erupted in over a thousand years. It says the belly is empty, devoid of molten fire. A great explosion of heat blocked out the sun long ago, set the lands into chill. It happened fast, the mountain’s heart hardening, the great fires within hollowing to a finite point of intense heat.
From that heat came The Great Wyrm, the soul of Red Mountain, the thing that has stalked these lands for hundreds of years. It comes. It goes. The land is resettled. The wyrm arrives soon after, repeating the cycle.
Johnny coughs. Lifts his face plate. Spits black.
He drops the face plate and ascends, following the path that others carved before. His steel armor slowly grows heavy and hot. His tongue sticks to the roof of his mouth. There are no bones or broken swords. No hint of life. Only red clay buried beneath layers of ash.
He turns, looking back the way he came. There is green grass, blue sky, and a solid line that separates it from the mountain. It’s a sharp cut, as if someone drew a knife tip over the land. Johnny never saw the change beneath his boots because he kept his head up, gaze fixed above the billowing behemoth.
There are stretches of time, moments when Johnny believes he hasn’t moved at all, or that he’s moved too far up too quickly. Dizzying. Strange. Each step weighted, sludgy, like he’s dragging himself along. Focus is on his feet, on moving each leg independently of the other, concentration on the intention to walk. It splits his focus, diverting all attention to the red clay and not the path before him.
Cool, fresh air hits him first, refreshing to point of deliverance. Johnny wobbles, nearly topples backward and down the mountain, only to correct at the last moment, throwing himself forward into the darkness. Hands outstretched, he falls on solid stone. Not a long fall, more of a trip, like when he first became a squire and couldn’t find his head even if it was shoved up his arse.
Tentatively, Johnny removes his helmet, and breathes in deep.
There is no burn. No cough. No itch. The grit on his teeth is gone, tongue no longer parched, the need for water evaporating. He feels like a new man, born again after a good rest.
And the air smells, like crushed eggs long rotten in the back of a chicken coop. Beneath the sulfur and stink, is a hint of sweetness like a mouthful of honey cake. Johnny sniffs as he walks forward, one hand on the pommel of his sword, alert and attentive. It wraps around him, lulls him forward, spins around him like chains, guiding him on and on and on.
Light appears, soft and low. There’s a glimmer. A flash of gold. Johnny steps around what he believes to be a wall, only for it to crumble beneath his fingers, a rampant torrent of cascading gold, gems, and jewelry. An abundance of wealth. They fan out, breaking open a gap, exposing the light to a heavy brightness.
Johnny throws up his arm to cover his eyes, crouching slightly. He keeps to the edges, walking between stacks of gold that ascend into darkness. That is all he sees at first. An intense light ahead and miles of treasure.
And then it shifts.
The top of a plain wood chair sticks out from one of the piles, followed by a broken wagon wheel, a charred beam, torn clothes, a child’s toy. More items appear, the gold receding, revealing belongings, woven baskets, scythes, an anvil. They ascend like the gold, creating piles of broken things, as if everything in the shadow of the mountain was caught in a large gale, and swept into the mouth.
“A visitor.”
The deep, rumbling purr startles Johnny, sending him stumbling away from the stained-glass window he was about to touch.
“Where are you, foul beast?” he calls out, but even he realizes how hollow he sounds. The threat is plucked out like a rose needle in skin.
“I’m right here.”
The voice is quiet this time. Right next to his ear. Johnny swivels, drawing his sword, and finding nothing.
Around him, the light dims, darkening the edges of his vision. The piles of broken things are not things at all but piles of gems, and then it melts, oozes, becoming wood and the lives of fallen people once more.
Past it all, there is a flicker, like a candle flame. And Johnny swears, swears that the flicker is not light at all, not a sparkle of gold, but eyes.
“No,” comes the voice again, directly behind him. The air is heavy with presence. “Here.”
Hesitation is weak. Hesitation will slit your throat.
Johnny swings.
Sword meets solid flesh, and bounces off. Johnny’s grip slips, the sword vibrating. It falls, clanging to the floor, and Johnny can only stare. Ears ringing like the vibrating sword, Johnny looks up, expecting a blow to the face, an arrow to the throat, or a slice across the stomach.
What he finds instead is a man.
Just a man, but not.
Naked and tall, broad shouldered, every limb thick with muscle. Power oozes from him, and that honey scent, it’s denser here, intoxicating as it is suffocating. A turn of the head reveals a glint of scales at the back of his neck.
“They sent one?” he scoffs. “They used to send armies.”
“You killed them all,” Johnny replies lamely. The Great Wyrm is a serpent of the sky, not flesh and blood. “This is a trick,” murmurs Johnny. “A trick.”
“A trick?” he says, feet silently circling Johnny.
“You’re—" Johnny shakes his head. “You’re—”
“The Great Wyrm?” His nostrils flare, all animal, shifting in Johnny’s direction as he does so. “I am. Expecting a beast?”
Johnny bends at the knees, the shock of the reveal receding. Duty rushes in, reaching out for a blade. Fingers centimeters away, Johnny is yanked by the throat. Human hands grow claws, latch in, keep him still. The Great Wyrm’s brown eyes reveal hypnotic-honey, a cerebral gnashing that loosens Johnny’s limbs.
“I have a name. I did. Once.” As The Great Wyrm speaks, black smoke drifts from his nostrils and mouth. Down his throat comes a warm, molten glow. “A ghost is what I am now.”
“Ghost,” replies Johnny, nearly slurred. “Suits you. Never caught. Slipping through the king’s fingers.” Each word is stuck, refusing to come out, escaping in clipped jolts of syllables. “Thought you’d be taller. Less skin. More scales.”
Ghost’s lips quirk slightly in amusement. Leaning in until their foreheads are nearly touching, Ghost inhales deeply, closing his eyes. Johnny’s stomach is weird, brain jumbled, limbs goo. Each inhalation and exhalation from Ghost worsens the fog until all Johnny can see and taste and touch and smell is Ghost.
“What—what are doing to me?”
Ghost’s eyelids snap open, widen, narrow to a primal possessiveness. “What do you smell?” His question filters into Johnny’s ears at a distance, muffled as if through rock. Ghost’s head dips, one claw on his otherwise human hand catching on Johnny’s bottom lip.
The flip is sudden, and Johnny groans.
Fog recedes, expanding outward, the crushing weight curling his back and tightening his balls. Arousal comes quickly, cock stiffening until it throbs to the point of pain. Ghost’s eyelids flutter in ecstasy, closing the distance, nuzzling the side of Johnny’s face. It only worsens the stimulation.
“What do you smell?” Ghost asks again.
Through gritted teeth, Johnny says, “Honey. Warm honey.”
Ghost’s clawed thumb draws downward to his chin, replaced by his lips. Johnny’s mouth opens involuntarily as a small shiver of awareness despairingly resists. The kiss is a blacksmith’s forge. All heat. Burning.
And Johnny feels no pain.
No burns. No blisters.
Nothing.
The sharp intensity snaps. Locks into place. No longer confined, Johnny senses everything, and another. Right there. Nestled in his brain as if it were his own. Johnny opens his mouth, to speak to scream to say anything. With the want of words comes images. Not his own. They unfurl within him, unpackaged by another hand.
Mate.
Mate.
Mate.
It’s a steady war drum. Over. Over. Over. Over.
Ghost’s free hand cuts through Johnny’s armor, slices it like soft butter. Smooth and with no effort. Johnny’s head spins. All he knows is that one word and Ghost’s mouth. Of scaled flesh beneath his hands, of a heat that should be roasting him alive where he stands.
“I’ve been waiting,” growls Ghost, steering Johnny backward, commanding his movements. “Waiting for millennia.” The next growl isn’t human. It’s a rumble from deep within the earth. “Bound to this land.”
Ghost’s body brushes against the clothes Johnny wears beneath the armor. They catch fire, burn low, becoming ash that drifts off into the air. His skin remains untouched.
Another step.
Another.
Johnny is seized by the ankle but there is no strength in the weight. Within the haze, Johnny glances down, sees a familiar face.
“I know you,” he murmurs. Head swiveling, he finds another. Naked, male bodies all in various states of arousal and consciousness, some starting to writhe under The Great Wyrm’s immense heat. Knights. Men he knows. Men he watched leave and not return.
“They weren’t what I needed,” says Ghost. “They can’t carry my heat. My fires. My young.” Ghost’s hand wraps around Johnny’s cock. Precum drips from the tip. “They pleased me. But they’re not you.”
Johnny shakes his head but the images are constant. Through the connection, Johnny sees everything, Ghost’s whole history, the loneliness, the desire to escape, the fruitless search for his true mate. Desire weaves through the images like crawling vines.
His head falls back, lips parting with a moan. Ghost’s hands slowly descend and Johnny manages to bring his attention back, and down. Down to where Ghost kneels, his features shifted. The scales have multiplied, his irises narrowing and lengthening into cat-like slits. Horns adorn his head. Two are larger than the rest, thick at the base and rising into points. The rest are small, some still emerging from the skin.
“You’ll understand,” says Ghost.
Mouth opening, every inch of Johnny’s cock disappears into Ghost’s mouth.
Having never publicly posted anything I’ve drawn anywhere before this is somewhat terrifying, and sharing something that is still a WIP maybe makes it even more terrifying because I can still see so much that I would like to tweak and tidy… but I don’t know when exactly I’ll actually finish him so I thought hey why not be brave and share him as he is!
So here is my interpretation of pagan!soap inspired by @gloomwitchwrites’ fantastic two stories. He has lived in my brain rent free since I read the first one and I just had to get him down on a page. Poppy, you write such wonderful stories and incredible characters. I hope I’ve done pagan!soap some semblance of justice and just a massive thank you for these incredible brainworms. Hopefully I can finish him at some point in the not too distant future, but I am a chronic non-finisher of projects 😂
Did I end up spending far too long reading about clothing from that era? Yes. Do I still plan to draw a version of him with less clothes and/or his wolf mask down the line? Also yes. And you know, give the poor guy some legs!
Here’s hoping I don’t panic and delete this later 😅
Loved your work “revenge is a glory hole” will you write more about it? What an end!
Thank you so much!
For me, it's done and over with. I won't be writing a follow up. I certainly have my own ideas how I would continue it, but I think it's better to leave it up to the readers to imagine what they would like. <3
*Edit: there are multiple people asking about a part two, so this answer is also me answering the others.
Did you write something with 141+ Alejandro and Rudy having hyperspermia and gf/wife!reader with a breeding kink? Or am I thinking of a completely different author?
Nope! That isn't me, and I'm so sorry but I'm not sure who it is. Maybe one of my followers can help direct you!
2026 Art x Fic Collaboration (The Grand Library F.K.A. 141 RECON Server) | Junepiter — Celestia (AO3 | Tumblr) (Galactic Knight!Johnny x AFAB! Reader) by @the-californicationist | Drawn on Procreate, Animated on Photoshop (No Process Video Because I am still working on it!)
This is the black and white version of the collab as I got hella swamped with freelance and won't be able to colour it until I fly back from my vacation in August ;w;. For now, here's a b&w GIF of Galactic Johnny o vo)/
It’s been such a privilege and honor to watch Patty’s work for this come to life. Please go show her some support and love, and head over to @the-californicationist tumblr or ao3 to read the work that accompanies it!
could I humbly request In Denial additions with Alejandro or Rudy?
I'm loving all the asks coming in requesting Alejandro and Rudy for older Imagines prompts. And you don't get one without the other. They're a pair and I will write them as such. Went a bit fluffy with these. Enjoy!
For the masterlist and how to submit your own request, click HERE
Alejandro Vargas & Rodolfo "Rudy" Parra x Gn!Reader
ao3 // main masterlist // imagines & what if masterlist
Alejandro Vargas
Rudy swirls the tequila in his glass. “You’ll help?” He takes a sip, sucking his teeth at the descending burn. From allies to unlikely friends to wingmen, Task Force 141 are Rudy’s last resort.
“What about the rest of his men?” asks Price just as Ghost asks, “Is he always like this?”
Rudy answers Price first. “They’ve tried. All of us have.” He turns to Ghost. “Like what?”
Ghost crosses his arm, twisting around to glance at the group. “Sappy. White knight. Doesn’t deserve love because of the blood on his hands. That shite.”
Gaz snorts, beer bubbling around his mouth as he tries not to choke. “Fucking hell, Ghost. Projecting much?”
“Fuck you.”
“Only when he likes someone,” answers Rudy.
“How often is that?” asks Price.
Rudy shakes his head, downing the rest of his tequila. “Never.”
Johnny leans back in his chair, placing his hands on his belly, fingers joined as he stretches. “Aye. Man just needs a push.” He mimes bringing their heads to together. “A good kiss will do it.”
“Don’t let Simon do it,” chuckles Gaz, lightly slapping the side of Johnny’s arm with the back of his hand. “He’ll use too much force. Might bash their heads in.”
“Why you up my arse tonight?”
Gaz throws up his hands as Price clears his throat. “Behave. The both of you.”
“Think an outsider’s perspective might sway him,” says Rudy. “Make him stop denying his feelings.”
The five men turn in unison. Across the bar, Alejandro’s soft gaze is focused on you. Anyone with two working eyes can see how love-struck he is.
Johnny heaves a great sigh. “Well,” and he pushes up from the table, chest puffed in determination. “I’ll handle this.”
“No. No!”
Rodolfo "Rudy" Parra
Alejandro watches the disaster from behind his hands, two fingers spread in a narrow line, elbows on the table to prevent him from collapsing in embarrassment. Across the bar is Rudy, who cannot flirt to save his life.
“He needs work,” chuckles John Price, lightly tapping Alejandro’s shoulder in reassurance.
“Poor bastards’ trying his best,” muses Simon Riley. “Give him a chance.”
Kyle Garrick and Johnny MacTavish are to Alejandro’s left, silently observing the trainwreck. MacTavish’s face has gone red from holding in laughter, and Garrick is nearly under the table, drink still in hand as he bends in on himself, wheezing.
Alejandro is Rudy’s constant wingman, practically shoving anyone and everyone in Rudy’s face in the hopes that the man will latch on correctly and not into obliviousness. The only person Rudy has ever voiced his interest in is with him now, a bartender at the place they frequent near headquarters.
They’re in love, and it’s utterly oblivious to everyone but Rudy.
“They talk every time we come,” groans Alejandro, shifting his hands to his temples, rubbing out the stress. “Never picks up on it.”
From under the table, Kyle snorts, and then it shakes, glassware rattling.
“Hit your head down there?” wheezes Johnny, bending for a look. “Ow, you bastard,” but Johnny is smiling, playfully swatting at Kyle’s fist at it thrusts up from under the table.
“An outside perspective might help,” sighs Alejandro, dropping his hands to grab the bottle of tequila. “Hates listening to me. Keeps denying it.”
Price chugs the rest of his beer, tongue sliding over his teeth, inhaling through his nostrils. “Need to stop talking to him and talk to the bartender.”
Kyle’s head pops up from under the table. “Captain. What you up to?”
Price rolls his shoulders. Cracks his neck. “Bartender!” he calls out, gesturing.
Rudy turns, and then they start to walk over. “If he won’t listen, I’ll have a chat with the other one.”
Content & Warnings (mdni): noncon, glory hole, unprotected sex, revenge plot, multiple creampie, oral sex, rough sex, sex toys, fingering, anal, pregnancy, squirting, reader is General Shepherd's adopted daughter
This is a work of noncon. Please use "cw: noncon" or "dark fic" to filter. Heed the tags. I warned you.
A/N: for the anon who asked for noncon with Price (have a few more) and for @quarterlifekitty who offered up additional brainworms to chew on.
Word Count: 2.6k
A death for a death. An eye for an eye. That’s how revenge always goes. But there is no death to avenge, only betrayal. Price will tarnish the pretty thing General Shepherd loves most.
ao3 // main masterlist
Behind the tree line is a motorway, the distant roar of cars barely audible given the natural barrier. The sky is dark. No stars. Simon’s cigarette is the brightest thing on the lot beside the lone bulb affixed to the building in front of them. It’s above the faded wood door, unprotected from the weather. The bulb is slightly blackened, dampening the light.
“Think he’s trying to kill us?” asks Kyle, eyes narrowing as he observes the worn wood.
Simon exhales, smoke curling around his face as it dissipates into the air. “Price?”
Kyle turns to Simon, top lip curled in disgust. “Fucking look at this place, mate.”
Johnny sticks his hands in his pockets, shrugging. “Not up for getting ya’ dick wet?”
“Fuck off,” groans Kyle.
“Think he’s on to something, Johnny,” croons Simon. The behemoth of a man inhales the last of the cigarette, tossing the butt in the gravel, extinguishing the embers with the toe of his boot. “No windows. Weird lock. Metal walls. Fucking murder shed that is.”
“Think there’s a dead body in there?”
“Limbs hanging from chains?”
“Captain Price, the serial killer?” Kyle’s fist lands on Johnny’s shoulder. “Fuck me. That hurt.” Johnny lunges, the two men wrestling for a headlock.
Rolling his eyes, Simon kicks at Johnny’s shin. “Grow up. Fucking children.” Lighter in hand, Simon clicks it open. Shut. Open again. “Rather do this in the club?” He nods toward the secondary building, the larger one to the left. Muffled, pounding music oozes from the building, growing louder when the entrance door opens. “Where everyone can watch? You into that?”
“Piss off.”
Johnny throws up his hands. “No judgement, Kyle.”
“Price wants us to blow off some steam,” says Simon. “We’ve been pent up. Aggressive since the mission. He’s fucking right.” He side-eyes Johnny. “Also felt bad you almost died.”
Johnny sighs dreamily. “Loves me more than my own, Da.” Johnny throws his arm over Kyle’s shoulder, drawing him in. “Probably bought us one of the bonnie lassies in there. Or three.”
Simon growls low in his throat, eyes on the door. “I have the code.”
Kyle’s head tips back, gazing up into the starless sky. “Let’s have it off then.”
Johnny hollers, shaking Kyle like he’s a ragdoll before taking off to the murder sex shed.
“Out the way, Johnny,” scolds Simon, elbowing him.
Simon punches in the code, the red light flipping green. Twisting the knob, he shoves open the door, revealing darkness. It takes a moment for their eyes to adjust, to unwrap the present inside.
“Fucking hell,” murmurs Simon, stepping into the small room. Johnny and Kyle slide in on either side of him. The door shuts with an audible click. “Is that—”
“It is,” says Johnny, clearly surprised.
No bed or lounge decorates this room. No scantily clad women ready to offer themselves. There’s a hole in the wall. A cutout. Large enough for a human to crawl through. Breeding Hole is painted in glowing green neon above it. Two arrows curve inward to point at either side of the hole. The lettering oozes downward like fresh paint.
The hole is not unoccupied.
Johnny’s surprise turns to lecherous glee. “It’s a fucking glory hole.” He slowly strides forward, gaze sweeping over exposed skin and spread legs.
A woman, but only half, sticks out from the wall. You’re on your stomach, a black board with a red cushion supporting your weight, top end covered by a black curtain. Black stilettos, strappy with a razor-thin heel, is all you wear. The rest is exposed and open for them.
Beside the glory hole are two sets of ankle straps. One set is higher than the hole itself, allowing for legs to be locked open and wide. The second set are level with the support cushion. They can bend your knees, force them open, keep you restrained as they fuck you.
Price didn’t buy one or even three of the workers in the club for a quick fuck. A countdown on the wall denotes the remaining time.
Three hours.
Three fucking hours.
Price bought a session.
Graffiti covers the remaining three walls. Several television monitors play porn without sound. Overhead, music blares, a thudding rhythm that shakes the bones. Light comes from a few stray bulbs in the ceiling, each covered by a clear glass box in different colors. The set-up bathes the space in a kaleidoscope, heightening the pulsing intensity of the room.
Simon, Johnny, and Kyle circle you but don’t touch.
Glancing at a nearby rolling cart, Simon grabs a bottle of lube. “Look here,” he says, nodding his head.
It’s packed with silicon dildos of various shapes and sizes, anal plugs, vibrators, a variety of stimulation toys from a feather to a wooden paddle. There are extra bottles of lube, individually wrapped sanitation wipes to clean themselves, or you, off, and beside that are two rows of disposable cameras with extra film. A sticky note next to the cameras says “Use Me.”
“No condoms,” muses Simon, finding them absent after a second perusal.
“Says breeding,” chuckles Johnny. “Don’t need condoms for that.”
“Think she’s clean?” asks Kyle.
Johnny turns on him. “First you think he’s trying to murder us and now you think he’s going to give us STDs?”
“Not intentionally,” mutters Kyle.
Simon snorts, placing the lube back on the cart. “Think Price is the type?”
Kyle inclines his head. “Maybe to his enemies.”
“Be real shite of him,” laughs Johnny. “After feeling bad for me and all.”
Stepping forward, Kyle traces the lines of your body, fingertips hovering millimeters away from skin. “Hand me the lube,” he demands of Simon, not looking at him. “And a plug,” he adds as Simon places the lube in Kyle’s offered palm.
Johnny claps his hands together, grinning madly. “Aye. That’s how it’s done.”
Gripping the plug in one hand and the lube in the other, Kyle squirts a generous amount. As he places his hand on your ass, you jerk as if surprised. Kyle gives you a generous, reassuring squeeze before sliding his hand between, easing you open wider until your pussy and anus are stretched and exposed. Both tense and flex, and Simon groans.
“Fucking gorgeous sight,” murmurs Simon, rubbing his hand over the front of his dark jeans.
Kyle aligns the plug, pressing the tip against the puckered hole. There is resistance but it pops in smoothly. Your thighs shiver followed by another jerk of your body. Kyle fills his hands with you, squeezing, some of the remaining lube transferring.
Squeezing both cheeks, he settles his clothed hips in front of your exposed pussy. “Perfect height,” he says, lightly thrusting. He backs up, gesturing. “Try.”
Johnny takes his place and then Simon. Height won’t be a problem. They’ll be able to fuck you with ease.
“Who’s starting?” asks Kyle.
When no one moves, Johnny aims for his belt buckle. “Aye. I fucking will.”
Johnny releases his semi-hard cock, easing his pants open and down enough to keep the zipper away from his dick. Fisting the base, he jerks himself, pressing the head of his cock to your clit, rubbing against it. A sharp smack echoes with the music as Johnny’s free hand comes down on your ass. A few more send your thighs twitching.
Kyle licks his lips, joining Johnny, occupying his hand with the other cheek. Simon lingers at the cart, picking up different toys and vibrators, clicking them on and messing with the settings.
Beads of precum bloom in Johnny’s slit. He paints your clit with them, smearing it around to act as lube. A few more beads and he playfully teases your pussy, easing the tip in and out, all while jerking himself to hardness.
“What about this one?” Simon holds up a small vibrator no larger than the palm of his hand. It’s on, shaking wildly, nearly jumping around from the speed setting.
Johnny smacks his dick against your pussy a few times and steps away as Simon approaches with the vibrator.
“Too much?” asks Simon, switching the speed down a level.
“Not enough,” replies Johnny, slowing his hand movements to strokes.
Simon ups the speed again, firmly shoving the vibrator against your clit. Your ass bucks into the air. Kyle lunges forward, placing pressure onto your lower back, forcing you back to the cushion. You writhe under Kyle’s hold, attempting to escape the sensation. Simon, with the continued pressure, swirls the vibrator.
Another jerk, and they all jump back.
“Fucking hell,” laughs Johnny. “Got ourselves a squirter.” Simon is already reaching for a wipe, patting down your skin to clear the excess. Johnny inserts two fingers into your pussy, pumping slowly. “She’s dripping.”
“Need us to hold her?” asks Simon
“Aye,” and Johnny nods at the cameras on the cart. “Want a picture of this slick cunt taking my cock.”
Simon chuckles, handing off a camera to Kyle as he readies his own. He holds it up, snapping a photo as Johnny’s cock disappears.
“Fuck,” groans Johnny. “Tightest cunt I’ve ever fucked.”
Simon snaps a few more photos and sets the camera aside. “We got her, Johnny.”
Together, Simon and Kyle grasp your legs, pulling you toward them and further onto Johnny’s cock. They move as one, adjusting the ankle straps, locking you in as Johnny rests his hands on your back, putting his weight behind it.
Hips sharply jerking, Johnny drives into you, only chasing his end. Lips parted, panting, beads of sweat forming on his brow. Simon and Kyle watch intently, their eyes lust-laced and eager, each of them stroking themselves to hardness as they wait their turn.
Johnny groans out his pleasure, grinding his hips against you as his balls tighten. Kyle already has the camera ready as Johnny slips out. Simon moves when Kyle does, spreading your pussy wide with his fingers. Kyle waits a beat, snapping a photo when Johnny’s cum appears.
“Not enough,” observers Simon. “Needs more.”
Kyle takes position. He doesn’t fuck as wild and hard as Johnny, but his strokes are deep and deliberate.
Johnny smiles behind the disposable camera. “Hold that pose.” Kyle eases your leg up a bit, giving Johnny a clear view of how Kyle’s thick cock stretches your pussy.
The camera goes off and Kyle starts to fuck you again. When the creampie happens, they snap another cumshot photo.
“Not enough,” repeats Simon. “Not nearly enough.”
With three hours on the tab, they rotate, take pictures, make you squirt a few more times. Kyle removes the anal plug, going up a size, insert it while they turn you onto your back. Ankles are secured in new restraints, toes pointing toward the ceiling, legs stretched.
Simon hooks his arms around your legs, hands firmly gripping your thighs. He cares little for ceremony or niceness. Their mixed cum is smeared all over you pussy and ass, overflowing whenever one of them fucks your cunt.
Johnny aligns the camera perfectly, angling just so to capture the position without Simon’s head in the photo and the television monitor off to their left. It’s showing a gloryhole similar to this one.
“Turn her on her side,” instructs Kyle, indicating how with a flick of his finger. “Think that tight ass is ready.”
Unhooking your ankles from the restraints, the three of them turn you onto your left side. Simon eases you toward them a touch. Lifting your top leg, he plants it on his shoulder. He straddles your other leg, aligning his cock up with your pussy. Johnny spreads your ass cheeks for Kyle; the plug removed with a wet pop.
On the other side of the partition, you cry out around Price’s dick as not one but two cocks enter you. They fuck rough. Hard. Whoever they are. Not that you can ask. Not that you can say anything. All you can do is stare daggers at the man keeping your mouth occupied.
Price tuts as you choke on him. “What will your daddy think of you?”
Daddy won’t know about this at all.
You’re taking this but you’ll never speak about it. Whatever your adoptive father did to earn Price’s ire is unknown to you, and you don’t wish to know anyway. General Shepherd never brings work home, but you’re aware of his power, and that he likely has enemies everywhere.
When Price took you from your apartment in Washington D.C., you thought he’d kill you. Make you an example to your father.
“Apologies, love,” murmurs Price, using his thumb to wipe away smeared cum on the corner of your mouth. “But your father’s a bastard.”
There is cum in your hair, on your face, all over the cushion, spread over your breasts. You’re not allowed to swallow. Your mouth is a hole for Price to come in. Nothing more.
Price palms your breast, squeezing, teasing your nipple between thumb and forefinger. “Glad my men are having fun.” Price eases the rest of his cock into your mouth until you gag. He retreats slightly, but only enough for your breathing to return to normal. “They deserve it. After what happened to them. What your father put them through.” He sighs. Shrugs. “Not that they know who they’re breeding.”
Unable to move, unable to speak, you only stare, narrowing your gaze to stinging venom. Price brushes it off like it’s nothing.
Insignificant.
Killing General Shepherd was Price’s gut reaction.
Soap shot in the head, bleeding out, barely clinging to life. They thought him dead. His recovery, as slow as it was, surprised them even more. If Johnny had been killed, if he hadn’t survived, General Shepherd would feel lead, too. Know death was coming for him.
The sole reason Price didn’t fill General Shepherd full of holes is because Johnny lives, and lives well. Price’s revenge requires a different taste, and before him, the spread is bountiful.
A few favors are all it took to put Price in Shepherd’s office at the Pentagon. Place is a fucking fortress but it’s just a building when people owe you. Shepherd will know it’s him. There’s no doubting that. But Price wants him to know.
Price leans against the front of the desk, lightly tapping the final nail against his palm. Around him are pictures. Took a while to develop them. Can’t walk into a store, hand over rolls of film full of cumshots, and ask for them to be developed. He had to do this quietly. Discreetly. Took a few months of planning, but it’s here, in front of him.
Each and every picture is from that night. The only face that appears in any of the photos are of yours. Boys were smart about how much of themselves they revealed. A few didn’t make it, but there were plenty in the end.
Price admires his work, at how the photos cover nearly every surface. Shepherd will walk in, and everywhere he looks, they’ll be a picture of his daughter taking cock.
But there’s one final piece.
Something he didn’t expect.
Something that happened just this morning.
You should have killed me. You should have fucking killed me!
You were angry, standing at Price’s doorstep. Don’t know how you fucking found him, but your Shepherd’s, and he likely taught you well.
Beating on his chest, screaming in Price’s face, you raged, and then you spit out the real truth, the reason you even went looking for him in the first place.
The pregnancy test stares up at Price.
There are three possible fathers. All of them still ignorant about you and what Price did.
He’ll disown me. Did you know that? He’ll force me out of the family over this.
Price won’t put it past Shepherd to act so harshly, but you’re with him now. Left you asleep on his bed, curled up under the covers. He’ll have to tell the lads eventually, but not right now.
Pushing off, Price turns, placing the pregnancy test down in the center of General Shepherd’s desk.
HEADCANNONS REQUEST!! The 141 with unconventional pets: not the usual cat, dog, hamster or even bird....I'm talking wild animals and/or fantasy creatures. You can work this into any AU you like....I have full faith in your indescribably vast writing talents!
Orc Chief!Ghost with his two hyenas that always sit at the foot of his bone throne. He keeps them hungry enough that his threats carry weight. Those frothy, salivating canines keep his enemies in their place.
Pagan!Soap keeps a brown bear as a pet. Raised it from a cub to an adult. A loyal companion, the bear is more family than pet, following the wee bairns around to keep them out of trouble but fearsome in a fight.
Veteran!Price is the tough-looking man with a cute pet, but it’s no toy dog. Daisy, Price’s potbellied pig, doesn’t leave the house without her pink, bedazzled harness. It’s only princess treatment for her.
Wizard!Gaz won’t stand for you calling his tressym his pet. She’s not a cat, and don’t pet her without asking. She is his familiar. A companion. A friend. An equal. A pet? Gaz will banish you to a different realm.
CoD Headcanons / AUs / Quick Writes Masterlist // main masterlist
Any thoughts for tf141!teacher/professor x student!reader?
mdni. power imbalance, manipulation, grooming, gn!reader
Professor!141 looking for their star pupil in student!reader.
Heading the poetry department at a prestigious Ivy League university, all Professors Garrick, Riley, Price, and MacTavish desire is to find their iridescent pearl in a sea of clams. Many talented students come and go, entering and leaving the program, gaining success or falling into obscurity. They travel, supporting their most promising students in the hopes that they will bring attention and accolades the program. It means more funding, and a flawless reputation.
Your recommendations, the portfolio you present when applying, sings with promise. They extended an acceptance letter, holding a professional manner with you in the beginning. They don’t want to chase you away. They don’t want you to run. There is golden potential in the words you craft, verse that flows smoothly thick around the brain, cradling that creative urge that good writing feeds.
All you need is a bit of work, some guidance, and their voice and hands will do that. Turn you toward success, to become the thing they crave. And you will trust them, listen until your movements mimic theirs, their motivations your own. You will become the shiny thing displayed behind thick glass, a testament to their hard work.
It takes just a smile at the start. A kind word.
A soft shove until you’re under their thumb.
CoD Headcanons / AUs / Quick Writes Masterlist // main masterlist
