Current work(s): Offer Me His Hunger Chapter 11 (updated 14th of August 2024)
Gaz Kidnapper Fic Ch.1
MDNI
Introduction:
Uh ok so I hesitated to make this because I have a feeling OMHH might be my one and only (magnum opus so to speak) but on the off chance it isn't, here's this.
My 'name' is Kadan (pronounced kuh-dahn, 'ah' as if you were at the dentist lol), but I also pretty commonly go by Viola or Vi (Viola like the Shakespeare character, not the instrument lol). I am (undiagnosed but very confident that I am actually) autistic/adhd, so if I come across as weird and pedantic and generally offputting that is more than likely why. I use she/her and they/them pronouns primarily and I identify as queer both sexually and gender-ly (that's not a word I'm sorry). I'm English (booooo!), Northern to be slightly more precise. I'm a fucking loser, teenage dirtbag-core. I don't accept bullshit, hatred or intolerance on my page and I won't hesitate to block or argue the fuck out with someone. For the record, I'm pro-Palestine so if you're a zionist you can piss right off.
Request Rules:
This is pretty much like a precautionary thing for something I doubt will happen but just in case;
I wont write noncon; I'm happy to receive asks about it but I personally don't write it. I will write dubcon though. Hard no's are the typical stuff; bestiality, scat, vomit, that sort of thing. General DDDNE I'm open to though (unless I specify otherwise which I'll put here in any case). I'm happy to write for any gender reader, but I will mainly focus on fem/fem-aligned readers just out of preference but male and non-binary readers are totally on the table. Trans specific stuff is at my discretion; I am AFAB and generally present as such so I don't have much lived experience with it. I try to keep my readers neutral in sense of looks, shape, race and religion but if someone requests something specific that is also at my discretion. Pretty much most things are at my discretion, but if you're unsure just send it anyways; I don't suffer from panic attacks and the like from triggering subjects so I'll just let you know if I'm cool with something. I'm writing mainly for COD:MW at the moment so those are the requ's I'll accept the most.
Masterlist:
Offer Me His Hunger (TBC): Johnny MacTavish x Single mother! Reader.
Chapter list
how would arguments go between simon and MOB? i imagine he would never dare raise his voice at her.
simon does not argue with his wife. if you are in danger or something is wrong, i could see him using a little bit of his lieutenant's voice just to get you to listen to him. to "get behind me" or "i'll take care of this, you go." otherwise, there's no resistance. none at all.
"you know, simon, i..." you stop at the door, swallowing. you rub a hand over your forehead, shaking your head. "i...i-i really don't want to go."
he shuffles in his boots, staring at you carefully. you're all dressed up; you've got a new dress on (that he bought you, eagerly), and you've done your makeup. you clutch your purse with clammy hands, and he narrows his eyes when he sees the tremble in your bottom lip. he clears his throat, taking his jacket off. he removes his boots quietly, scratching the back of his neck as he comes close to you to take your bag and hang it up by the door again.
"okay," simon murmurs. "then we won't go."
he doesn't tell you about the cancellation fee.
"'ello?"
"simon!"
he startles awake this time, holding the phone closer to his ear. the sheer anxiety in your voice cuts his gut sharp.
"wot? wot is it? wot happened?"
"i--i totally...i screwed up, simon--oh, god, i'm so sorry--"
"oi!" simon says firmly. "wot happened?"
"i...i'm at the shop, someone was going to back into me, so i swerved, and--"
"fuck," simon breathes. "are ya olright?"
"the car, it's--"
"not wot i asked," simon interrupts you. "are ya hurt?"
"w-what? i..." you sniffle. "no. i'm okay. just a little sore, i guess..."
"oh, no, no, no, no!" you gasp. the orange tabby's head perks up at the sound of your voice at the door. she's got one of simon's masks in her mouth, and even from this distance and without the lights turned on, you can tell the fabric is shredded to bits. it's all over the floor, scattered across the couch, flecks of lint in her fur.
"oh, god, how could you?!" you panic a little. she must have gotten into some kind of drawer or basket or the laundry, because as you start towards her, she darts away, leading you across the house where you can see shreds of more masks and simon's socks strewn about the house. "oh, no!"
the front door closes heavy. when you come into the living room, simon is there, dropping his gear onto the floor. he looks tired--his shoulders sag, and you can see his eyes half-lidded and barely opening.
"simon, i'm...i'm s-sorry, she--"
you're holding his tattered clothes, but before you can say anything more, he grabs you by the shoulders and hugs you so tight. you nearly lose your breath from how he crushes you to his chest, and you let out a quiet whimper when his knees buckle and he falls to the floor with you, cradling your head to his chest and kissing your forehead through the mask over and over.
you're here. you're real. you're alive.
you drop the shredded fabric and hug him back, closing your eyes as you breathe him in. he tips your head back finally, ripping his mask off and kissing you hard.
he doesn't care when he sees the orange cat take a bite of his thrown mask and run away with it.
he can buy a million masks. but his girls--he pulls back from your kiss to stare down at you, intense. he hasn't slept in days, and he hasn't had a decent meal in weeks, camping on different rooftops just to track a shipment, and when that bullet whizzed past his head, all he could think about was you. the cat-bitten plants. the warm food. the cherry dress. some things cannot be replaced.
some brides cannot be ordered again. they don't make them like you.
something something you marry a rich idiot and things go south fast. the prenup is nonexistant, you'll get half of everything if you go, and the prospect of losing any amount of money to you, the woman he's treated like shit relentlessly since you both said 'i do', is unbearable to him.
before you finally throw in the towel and call a divorce lawyer, that bastard up and dies. the circumstances are mysterious enough that you're investigated for a while, but cctv footage and credit card receipts clearly place you at a restaurant with your bestie, tearfully dishing about how quickly your marriage has fallen apart while you drown your sorrows in a glass of horchata. it takes months until you're finally in the clear, but when you are your shitty husband's entire estate goes to you.
you're sleeping in the very middle of your giant alaskan king mattress when you're awoken by the largest man you've ever seen sitting on your hips. he's wearing all black and a skull mask, pressing a knife to your throat and holding a single gloved finger up against his face.
"no screamin', now. i'm 'ere for what i'm owed." the intruder tells you, voice low and rumbling like an oncoming storm. you can only blink up at him, eyes blurring with yet-unshed tears, terror coursing through your veins.
"your 'usband paid me a 'andsome fee to cut you up and gut you like a fish. did you know that?" he asks, and all you can do is shake your head as your thoughts race through your head too fast to even fully process. the skull mask cocks to the side, and through the dim moonlight streaming through the curtains, you can see dark eyes slide over your wide, soft body. "thought 'e was a right prick when i was talkin' with 'im. ended up changin' the game plan in the end, didn't i?"
the knife is pulled away from your throat and sheathed next to a gun holster, whose presence you hadn't noticed until just now and makes you feel more than a little breathless with fear. fuck, your husband tried to have you killed. fuck, your husband's killer has you pinned to the bed. fuck, he's armed to the teeth and all you've got is your fucking retainer to defend yourself with.
slowly, cautiously, like a big cat stalking it's prey, he leans down on his forearms, bracketing your head as he drops more of his solid bodyweight onto you. the teeth of the skull dig into your cheek a little as he leans in as close as possible to whisper into your ear.
"everythin' you 'ave is because of me. surely you're smarter than 'im, you'll give me what i'm owed, won't you?" he sneers from under the mask, and you nod your head frantically, which earns you a dark chuckle that makes your hair stand on end. "oh, good girl. knew 'e was stupid, tryin' t'get rid of you."
"what is it that you want?" you ask, secretly proud that your voice didn't shake. it wasn't a given.
"oll of it. i'm the master of this 'ouse now, got it? else i'm sendin' the detectives a neat little packet of faked emails and bank records that make it look like you 'ired a killer to take out your spouse." you can hear a horrible smile in his tone, and it makes you shudder. there's no reason to doubt he's got that shit ready to go, lord knows the cops and prosecutor didn't walk away thinking you were completely innocent, despite it definitely being the case. besides, he's already double-crossed your husband and brutally killed him, who knows what this monster is even capable of?
"ok, i'll just need a few days to pack-" you say, trying to figure out the logistics of what he'll allow you to move out with you. your mother's fine china set will probably have to stay, but surely he doesn't want your toothbrush and tampons, right?
"pack? what d'ya mean, 'pack'?" a large gloved hand slides over your throat, not pressing, just resting there. a warning. every muscle in your body tenses.
"i- uh, i mean- so you can move in? surely you don't want my clothes to fill your closet-"
his sudden laughter cuts you off, deep and mean sounding while he shakes his head, seemingly in amusement. the fingers on your throat slide up over your chin and intrude into your mouth, pressing down on your tongue to silence you. suddenly you realize it's not the hard edges of his holstered weapons that are digging into the softness of your body, but rather something else. something rigid underneath the fly of his jeans. dots connect, and those welled up tears stream silently down the sides of your face and retreat into your hairline as your eyes get even wider. he runs his fingers over your teeth, humming in amusement when he presses his fingers further back into your throat, making you gag wetly, coughing and sputtering while he continues to laugh in your face.
"you're not goin' anywhere. i said i want oll of it, love. the money, the mansion, and everythin' in it. that's includin' you." he taunts, grinding his hard cock against your soft stomach. "now 'ow's about you spread your legs and show me proper 'omecomin'?"
woke up to a very weird phonecall this morning from an unknown caller ID of āhey gorgeous, what are you wearingā (like dude itās 9am wtf do you think) but when I went silent he just repeated it and then hung up, called again, let it ring out, then called again and honestly as strange as it was all I could think of was āthis is something soap would doā
like. you mean to tell me soap wouldnāt scrounge around the pits of the internet to try and find some girls number, call it, say the cringiest one-liner and then SAY IT AGAIN because she didnāt answer. Except soap wouldnāt stop calling and youād just have an all day rotary of some weirdo calling your phone asking what youāre wearing while he tugs one out on the other end of the line.
Telling security guard at a club Kate laswell you think sheās hot only to wind up cramped up in a shitty bathroom while you eat her pussy out is this anything
hmmmmm im usually not into vampires, but thinking about a vampire biting a human mid hookup because thereās no way heās giving up pussy this good. look forward to the next thousand years with the Worst Guy Ever
hi! Not dead! Have almost finished writing the next chapter of OMHH. Yay! Should be up at some point when I can be bothered to finish it off. Still trying to settle into uni. Probably wouldāve written more but the fuck off sized hill I have to trek up whenever I want to get back to my accommodation is disgusting and I collapse every time I get back.
You have nothing on your person apart from a hastily packed suitcase and the dress you came into town wearing, on the run from trouble back home. Too bad John's missing a bride that matches your description.
Or: the 1800s (mistaken) mail order bride au (chapter 16 + 17)
tw: violence, injuries, and misogynistic language
first chapter >> last chapter
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Sinking into fear is the bodyās natural response. You let it envelope you without putting up a struggle. It wouldnāt be one that youād win anyway. Resistance already leaks out of you like tar, pooling around your quivering legs.Ā Ā
It makes you feel lighter than air, almost buoyant; and conversely, heavier than lead.Ā
You canāt feel the cold metal of the gun through the layers of fabric separating it from the skin of your back, but you can feel its weight. And you can imagine it burning into you, burning a ring into the flesh, the muzzle leaving faint depressions behind, circular indents.
āDonāt feel so clever now, huh?ā
Fear chokes as well as it binds. When the man you remember as GravesĀ (appropriately named,Ā you think, the gravity of the situation sinking into you as well) drawls the words into your ear, any moisture in your mouth dries.Ā
āWell?ā he prompts, shoving the gun harder into your back, almost sending you toppling into the shelf still in front of you obscuring you from sight. āGot anythinā to say?ā
You open your mouth but nothing comes out.
āYou a mute, girl? I know you aināt deaf since you heard Iād been sniffinā around lookinā for ya. āLeast Iām guessinā you did, since you managed to give me the slip for the whole time I was in town.ā He sniffs. āTook me a while to find out you were shacked up with the sheriff. Hiding in plain sight. Couldnāt believe I missed ya when Sheriff Price was damn near the first person I met in this two-bit town.ā
You finally muster up the nerve to speak. āY-youāre making a mistake.āĀ
The furled upper lip is audible in his voice. āIād try not to piss me off too much, sugar. Lyinā just rubs me the wrong way is all.ā
āNo, youāyou really donātāāĀ
He shoves the gun harder into your back, making you wince. āNow, I know youāre a slippery little bitch, so Iāll level with you, alright?ā Graves murmurs, pitching his voice low to ensure that only you hear. āYou make so much as a peepāso much as a fuckinā whisperāand Iāll shoot. Wink and Iāll shoot. I amĀ dyināĀ for you to give me a reason to go with the better half of the dead or alive question.ā
Thereās no point in lying. It mightāve worked had it been anyone but the man holding you hostage; not a man as stubborn and mulish as him. You nod when he asks if you understand.
āNow get to steppinā.ā
He doesnāt tarry long, leading you out of the shop with a hand on your shoulder and . You stare at Miles with mounting horror, wordlessly begging him to look up from the ledger open in front of him on the counter. Your prayers go unanswered though; he doesnāt so much as glance towards the door before itās swinging shut behind you.
āRemember,ā Graves says in a low voice as the two of you step out onto the porch, ānot a word. IĀ willĀ shoot anyone that tries to interfere.āĀ
That kills the impulse to shout for help.Ā
The thought of letting Graves take you away without voicing so much as a single plea fills you with horror, but you canāt see any other way out. He walks you through the streets like an old friend, the pistol still wedged into your back obscured by his coat. No one seems to notice the wild look in your eyes or the strained edge of your smile.Ā
Your behavior infuriates you. Demural and soft andĀ wretched.Ā Youāve only allowed one man to put you under their thumb; only one has ever earned the right.Ā
The thought of your husband is an ache in your chest that doesnāt abate. It thumps with the terrified flutter of your heart. You half wonder if heāll suddenly appear from around a bend and wrench you into his arms, gun already drawn and aimed at the man attempting to take you away from him.Ā
āMy husbandāā you start, tripping over your words. Almost tripping over a rock as well since your spine is too stiff to let you look down at the ground while you walk. āāHe canāhe can pay you.ā
He laughs, a nasty, mocking sound. āIām sure heād like to, sugar. Jus' aināt sure heās got the cash to pay your price.ā
āAt least let meĀ askāā
At that, he jams the gun violently into the small of your back, making you wince agaun. Petrified. Sweat sluices off your brow and drips down your face. āWhat part ofĀ shut the fuck upĀ donāt you get?ā
That silences you. Hard to muster up the nerve to retaliate with a gun lodged against the base of your spine. Still thereās so much that bears asking. Why did he come back? Why hereāwhy now?Ā
The town takes on a dull, listless quality as he steers you away from the more crowded areas. Itās almost like looking through muslin; a veil between you and the world.Ā
Your eyes dart from person to person as they pass by in the opposite direction, but even those that bother to meet your gaze only smile politely, a couple passing gentlemen chirping, āMorning, Mrs. Priceā before sweeping by in a hurry.Ā
None question the wild, frantic glint in your eye, the look of a horse about to bolt. If they paid you more than a momentās notice, they might, but even the lady who frowns curiously at Graves, his hand still resting gently on your arm as if he were an old, dear friend, abandons her momentary curiosity when her companion says something of interest, pulling her back into their conversation. The flicker of hope in your belly dies a soundless death.Ā
Thereās something almost phantasmagorical about the entire ordeal. Almost like it isnāt quite happening, like you canāt quite make yourself believe that this is, in fact, real. Like youāre watching from outside of yourself. Though you can see the wooden facades of the nearby buildings and smell the scent of hay and manure from the livery stable, it doesnāt resonate within you as real.Ā
He meanders through town with you stationed in front of him. A meat shield. Collateral damage. Simply by the way he maneuvers you through the crowd, he reduces you to a body, stripping you of any semblance of personhood. Youāre less than meat to him, less than human evenāno more than a meal ticket.Ā
When you muster up the courage to open your mouth the next time someone passes you by, Gravesā hand slides up to your shoulder and he digs his fingers into the bone. A warning.Ā
āIf you think I was kiddinā before, just try me,ā he sneers into your ear, thumb pressing into your shoulder blade until you wince.Ā
Again, his voice dispels any thought of getting someoneās attention.Ā
He doesnāt lead you towards the train station like you expect. Instead, he heads to an awning beneath the saloon on the periphery of town where a couple horses are leashed to a post, waiting for their riders to come untie them. The roof of the awning is strung with a dense cluster of overlapping cobwebs. A spider scuttles across the web and into the dark inner recesses of the canopy.Ā
This far from the center of town, thereās hardly anyone. When you give your surroundings a quick glance, you canāt find a single other soul within earshot, only a single man pushing open the batwing doors on his way into the saloon. Then youāre alone again.Ā
A tawny gelding chuffs when Graves approaches.Ā Ā When he suddenly unhands you, it doesnāt click until heās several paces away from you, running his hand down his horseās neck and rifling through the saddlebags, emptying the contents of his coat pockets into them. You have to glance down at your shoulder just to be sure. He sheathes his gun as well, tucking it into the holster fixed to his belt.Ā
āBought the horse off a drunk three towns back,ā Graves explains while loading up the horse.
You donāt respond, still unsettled. Itās the first time since he led you out of the general store that his gun hasnāt been aimed at you. It wouldnāt be practical for him to dress and load the horse one handed. The sun beats down on you, burning the top of your head. This could be your momentāa moment to scream or run away.
But you donāt. You donāt scream and you donāt run because you are, above all else, a coward. Through and through. Youāve been running from your problems for months now, leaving someone else to take care of the mess you left behind.Ā
Fear paralyzes you; it makes you think too much or not at all. Even now, with Graves giving you the perfect opportunity to turn and run, you canāt stop thinking about the potential consequences. What if he were to shoot you? What if he were to haul you back into town and expose your sins to everyone who gathered around? What if the people in town that have come to see you as one of their own were to gather around your crumpled form and stare at you with vitriol and disgust?Ā
āHow did youāā you start, then pause to breathe, the nausea building again. āI thought youād left town.ā
āYouādāve liked that, huh?āĀ
You donāt answer that. You know better than to antagonize a man with a gun.Ā
He sighs when you donāt rise to the bait, almost pettish. āWedding announcement. I saw it in the paperāby then, Iād moved on to Lexington, so it took me awhile to backtrack, but I just knew somethinā about that bit in the paper about the sheriffās wife hailing from the east coast didnāt sound right. Too big of a coincidence. Had to at least be sureāretrace my footsteps. Lotta money on the line, you know.ā
You stare straight ahead at that. You ought to have known.Ā
(āIn the paper. The county sheriff got hitchedāof course itād be a story.ā)
āTo be honest, that kinda cracked me up. Murderess marrying the county sheriff.ā He snorts out a laugh, shaking his head. āSorta thing youād read about in a dime novel.ā
A new emotion wells up within you. It simmers in your belly, hot and cold at once. Righteous fury. All this time, youāve been betraying yourself with your silence, allowing men to read your fear as guilt. Complicit in your own ruin.Ā
āIām not a murderer.ā
The look he gives you is withering. āSugar, I hate to break it to you, but you did kill a man.ā
You open your mouth, but nothing comes out. Nothing ever does, it seems.Ā Ā But the more you hold it in, the uglier the thought seems, until it erupts from your chest like Vesuvius, lava and tephra shooting out.Ā
āHe deserved it,ā you finally spit out, the words coming from deep in your chest.Ā
Graves doesnāt even pause in his ministrations, back to tightening the saddle straps.Ā
āHeĀ deserved it,āĀ you repeat, spittle flying out of your mouth and landing in the dirt between the two of you.Ā
āThatās not somethinā I usually concern myself with,ā he finally says, looking distinctly unimpressed when he meets your stare. Bored blue eyes.Ā
Youāre struck by the sense that your life means so little to him that the circumstances surrounding your bounty hardly merit more than a passing thought. If he could spare less, he would.Ā
Itās the vilest thing in the world to be regarded with such bored contempt.Ā
āHe wouldāveāhe wouldāveĀ rapedĀ me otherwise.Ā I didnāt have a choice.āĀ
At that, Graves pauses. When he looks towards you, his eyes are curiously blank.Ā
āBetter that than whatāll happen now,ā he says, the words so perfunctory that it takes a moment for them to sink in.Ā Ā When they do, you have to swallow back bile.
His glibness shatters whatever hope youād had left.Ā
In that moment, you finally acknowledge that appealing to his sense of decency wonāt lead you anywhere because it simply doesnāt exist within him. Youāve known men like him beforeāthose more concerned with lining their own pockets than taking care of the vulnerable people around them. The archetype is not uncommon. You shouldāve expected it even, especially from a bounty hunter.Ā
There wonāt be any bribing him or talking your way out of the situation youāve found yourself in. Whatever facinorous end awaits you back east, heās happy to shepherd you there so long as it earns him his thirty coins.Ā
How many times do you have to ask yourself if youāre brave enough to do something before you answer?Ā
When Graves turns to face you again and takes a step towards you, likely to urge you up onto the saddle, you recoil, stumbling away from him. His eyes sharpen at your movement, fulvous wolf eyes narrowing on you.Ā
āAnd here I thought youād stopped pissinā me off,ā he says lightly, a hard edge underlying his words. His hand lifts to rest against the handle of the revolver tucked back in its sheath, thumb flexing over it.Ā
āWhatās the point?ā you retort, nostrils flaring. āYou either kill me here or I die there.ā
You sound braver than you feel, fear making you shake so hard that your knees almost knock together.Ā
Gravesā smile is all lip, no crinkling around the eyes. āOh, I wonāt kill you, sugar. Iām a better shot than that.ā
Your heart pounds against your ribcage, stomach turning over at the thought of him putting a bullet through your shoulder or leg.Ā
āIām surprised you wonāt just come quietly. You think the sheriff wouldnāt hand you over to me himself if he found out what kinda woman he married?ā
Thatās been your fear from the very beginning. The one thing thatās kept you awake at night, the nightmare shaking you out of a dead sleep. Youād convinced yourself that him calling the authorities or even escorting you back east himself was an inevitability. That John Price, paragon of virtue, wouldnāt bend the rules for anyone, much less you.Ā
But the more you think about it, the less sense it seems to make. Every tender word and touch rises to the forefront of your memory. If John has shown you anything, itās love. Heās proven his devotion a thousand times over, shown you time and again that were you to leave, heād come running.Ā
Suddenly, the thought that your husband would let someone take you away from him seems preposterous. It doesnāt align at all with the man you know. Heād go to hell and back for you, would rip out a manās tongue for speaking to you the way Graves speaks to you now. Hindsight makes that clear.Ā
You meet his eyes, intention set. āIād rather just ask him.ā
Blue eyes turn to flint, flat. Droll candor shed for ruthlessness. Silence before a storm.Ā
Heās on you before you even have a chance to whirl around and make a run for it, arm cutting into your windpipe when he wraps it around your neck. He drags you back into the shadows of the awning, out of sight from anyone on the street; your heels score lines in the dirt. You choke, wheezing on your next breath, but his arm tightens, trapping the scream in your throat.Ā
āShoulda done this before,ā Graves grunts, reaching into his back pocket and pulling out the pair of cuffs he had tucked away.Ā
When he unhooks his arm from around your neck, you gasp for breath, sucking in deep lungfuls of air. Panic swirls and rises in your chest.Ā
āGet your hands offāā you hiss, beating his arm with your fist to no avail. He yanks your arms in front of you until your wrists are pressed close together. Your blood curdles at the feeling of cold iron against your skin and the gut-wrenching sound of handcuffs being fixed around your wrists, tightened to the point of pain. You can hardly flex your hands with how tight theyāre bound. āLet me go,Ā let ME GOāā
He pulls you in close again. āDonāt think I wonāt tape your fuckinā mouth shut too,ā Graves snarls in your ear. Nausea swells in your belly.Ā
āPleaseāĀ pleaseĀ donāt do thisāā you beg, a sob breaking from your chest now.Ā
He sighs, long suffering. āLord knows I tried to warn you.ā
Despite the threat, Graves doesnāt tape your mouth shut. Instead, he fastens a rough piece of rope around your head, fitting it between your teeth like a bit. You donāt have it in you to be thankful for small mercies this time. The hemp cord scratches the corners of your mouth when you try to move your lips around it.Ā
āThere,ā he says, giving you a rough shake, satisfied. āThatās better. Can finally hear myself think.ā
The tears leak out of the corners of your eyes in big, fat droplets, clouding your vision. When he wipes your cheeks with a calloused hand, the nail of his thumb catches on the delicate skin under your eye, leaving a thin cut. The pain makes you flinch, staring daggers at the man in front of you, but he doesnāt apologize for his rough handling.Ā
Graves heaves himself up onto the saddle first, swinging a leg over with practiced ease. You yelp when he hauls you up after, setting you on the saddle in front of him. Heat crawls up your neck when your skirt billows around your waist, horrified.Ā
āSave your tears, sugar,ā he tells you, gathering the reins in one hand. āYouāll need āem for later.ā
The horse whinnies when Graves pulls upward and guides him towards the road leading out of town, hooves clopping against the dirt. Your heart shoots up into your throat.Ā
Galloping out of town, you chance a glance back, head spinning as the world blurs around you. A man stands under the awning you just left, his head cocked as if stupefied. Heās too far away for you to get a proper look at his face though, no way to tell if heās someone that might recognize you and alert John. You try to scream or wave your handsāanything to get his attention, to let the stranger know that something is wrong.Ā
You watch until the figure melds into the surrounding town.Ā
You keep waiting for someone to appear from behind you. A tall figure to darken the horizon, blot it like the moon passing over the sun.Ā
The last bastion of your hope collapses into rubble the farther away you ride, no man nor horse following you in pursuit. And then a hand grabs a fistful of your hair and wrenches your head back around, cutting off your view.
The plan is to leave the horse in the next town you reach and take a train back east. Graves wouldāve done that back in the town you just left, he tells you, but he wanted to put as much distance between you and the sheriff.Ā
āYou never know with men whoāve gotten a taste of married life,ā he says when he finally deigns to stop miles from town, sitting on a rock and having a drink while he leaves you tied to the horse by your wrists. You shift from foot to foot, a cramp winding up your legs. āThey get themselves a little pussy and lose all sense of dignity or morality. Canāt be trusted to do the right thing.āĀ
Steam practically billows out of your ears. You have the good sense to keep your mouth shut though, cognizant of the fact that youāre alone out in the middle of nowhere with a man whoād be happy to bring you back dead or alive. Though he hasnāt been quite so explicit, itās apparent in the way he doesnāt offer to untie you or let you rest as well. The skin under the cuffs on your wrists are rubbed raw from your attempts to free yourself, and from the journey itself, with all the jostling and the persistent cramp in your right shoulder.Ā
The animal awareness dawns on you during that first rest. Heād taken the rope out when you were far enough outside of town that it didnāt matter if you screamed or not. Thatās what stays your tongue nowāthe creeping notion that you are far from anyone that would be remotely sympathetic to your plight.Ā
āHow much was the bounty?ā you ask, more out of morbid curiosity than anything. You balance on one foot to shake the cramp out of the other.Ā
āNow, I hate to be rude, sugar, but what does it matter to you? It aināt you collecting the reward.ā
Your lips flatten into a taut line, already regretting prying. Itās not like knowing would change anything.Ā
The break ends sooner than youād hoped, Graves urging you back onto the horse before taking a seat behind you. It troubles you because youāre not far enough away from town that you couldnāt still be rescued. Thereād be more of a chance of John or someone elseāone of his deputies, perhapsācoming across you out here. But you donāt have much of a choice.Ā
Out here, the land stretches on without end. Only the faint blue of a mountain ridge paralleling your route breaks the horizon. The land is flat, sparse apart from the dense shrubbery and trees twisted and bent by the wind. Cottonwood and boxelder. Chokecherry. Dogwood and hawthorn. Lush blooming saltbrush.Ā
The clear blue sky overhead is almost mocking, the rain from earlier long since abated. Thereās hardly a cloud in the sky now. Itād be scenic if you could abstract it from the circumstances. A perfect day for gardening or a brisk walk after being kept indoors because of the rain. Youāre still damp from riding through the rain earlier.Ā
A few bison congregate in a small dip in the terrain, grazing on the wild grass. You stare at them wide-eyed as you gallop along the upper ridge, startled by the sight of so many in one place.Ā
Despite the sublime beauty of the land, you remain on edge, unable to take anything in or truly enjoy it. Panic and revulsion leave you as gnarled and knotted as theĀ krummholzĀ trees out in the middle of the open plains. Riding with Graves feels nothing like the few times you and John shared a horse. Itās impersonal; transactional. Entirely against your will.Ā
The sun has only just begun to descend under the horizon when you and Graves approach a ramshackle house situated by itself in the middle of the open plains. Barely more than a barn, and long since abandoned by the looks of it. Age has done the place no favors; wooden slats sag and separate from the exterior of the house, the gaps in between the boards letting in all manner of insects and rot.Ā
Graves dismounts his horse about a stoneās throw from the hovel. His brow furrows with dissatisfaction as he surveys the abandoned property.Ā
āShit,ā he remarks, sucking his teeth. āA local back in town swore a family still lived here. Donāt look like anyoneās lived here since Abraham.ā
Part of you wishes the former tenants still resided here, on the off possibility that one might take pity on you, but a much larger part of you is grateful for the dwellingās vacancy. Youāve heard stories before, of families living out in the middle of nowhere. Rumors. Not all bad, of course; itās common enough for families migrating west sometimes to stop along the way for a generation or two, building more permanent dwellings than the caravans they began their journey in. Many such families were also known for putting up travelers passing through in exchange for goods or help with chores.Ā
But youāve also heard other stories. Like the Riley family out near Cherryvale and their homestead just off the Great Osage Trail. They lived out there for more than two decades before the number of lone travelers vanishing off the trail within walking distance of their property pointed the finger of suspicion at them. When the authorities finally got around to procuring a warrant for their property, they found the house deserted apart from the furniture that couldnāt be loaded into the wagon and an infant boy, dehydrated and petrified.Ā
You shake the story from your head. āā¦Are we spending the night here?ā you ask tentatively.Ā
He looks at you from the corner of his eye, nostrils flared. āDonāt go gettinā any ideas in that head of yours. Jusā because a manās gotta rest his eyes, donāt mean I gotta give you a peaceful nightās rest. No, Iām leavinā those hands of yours tied.ā
Your hopes deflate at that.Ā
He helps you dismount before hobbling his horse with a pair of leather straps around its front legs to keep it from darting off in the middle of the night. You wince sympathetically; you have more in common with a horse now than any man.Ā
The inside of the cabin is just as derelict as the exterior. At the very least, he feeds you. A couple scoops of pemmican straight from the tin. The fact that he insists on feeding you instead of letting you feed yourself puts you on edge. Your spine is stiff as a board through it all, your mouth barely opening up to receive the spoonful of pemmican, the metal clanking against your teeth. You wince, the sound itself tasting of rust.Ā
At all times, you are aware of the precarity of your situation. You canāt imagine there were any stipulations in the bounty to bring you back unscathed. Though he hasnāt tried anything untoward so farānot so much as made a licentious remarkāyou donāt know how long your luck will last. You flinch every time he so much as twitches in your direction, sure at any moment his mood will flip and heāll drag you across the floor and haul himself over you.Ā
Itās enough to make your stomach hurt, turning over itself. He doesnāt try anything though, and for that you exhale shakily, the tension running off you in rivulets.Ā
One hour drags into the next. Night blackens the sky, seeping in through the crumbling walls of the cabin.Ā
āWell,ā Graves says, wiping his hands together to dust off any lingering crumbs. āIām gonna hit the hay.ā
āDoā¦do I get to sleep as well?ā
He cocks a brow. āNot much I can do to stop you.ā
āItās just thatā¦ā You lift your hands as you trail off, silently pointing out the handcuffs still secured around your wrists, the implicit assertion being that you wonāt be able to sleep with the metal digging into the bones of your wrists.Ā
Graves scoffs. āYou canāt think Iāll just uncuff you ācause we aināt in town no more. I got a little more sense than that, sugar.ā
āYou could use rope instead?ā you suggest.Ā
The seconds he spends considering it are long. You hold your breath as you watch him weigh the pros and cons.Ā
Finally, he shrugs. āAlright.ā
The relief that washes over you is almost palpable.Ā
He pulls a blanket out of one of the saddlebags to function as a makeshift pillow, setting it up on the floor in the center of the room. True to his word, Graves uncuffs you and loops a double knotted rope around your wrists instead, fastening the rope tying your hands together around his own wrist. Your stomach sinks as he pulls the knot taut.Ā
He levels a heavy stare on you after giving the rope one last tug. āI donāt usually repeat myself, sugar, but I will this one time. Donāt go tryinā anythinā stupid. Iām gettinā a good nightās rest and so help me if you wake me upāā his eyes flash, gray going steely āāyou wonāt like the consequences.ā
You nod. Swallow back the phlegm clogging your throat.Ā
True night plunges the old house into darkness, cricket songs slipping in through the cracks in the walls. The temperature also plunges with the setting sun. It gets cold at night, even in the summer months; the draft makes you shiver, the rotting exterior letting in the elements.Ā
You keep to the wall with the least amount of rotting boards, as far as the rope tethering you to Graves will allow you to go. It would probably be in your best interest to try and get some sleep, but youāre far too restless to calm down. The atmosphere in the house is far too eerie to settle your nerves either; you canāt help but wonder about the family that must have left this place to rot and fade away into memory.Ā
Itās all you can do to blink back the tears that spring to your eyes when you think about the memory of you that John will have to carry into the future now that youāre gone. It isnāt fair. After everything youāve had to endure in this lifetime, you thought maybe that this might have been your reward. That John was your reward.Ā
Your hands drop from your chin to your knees, hopelessness plaguing you again. The thin, sharp whistle of defeat. High and reedy as a death rattle.Ā
Then your eyes drop to your wrists.
The cord is fastened in a bowline knot around your wrists, difficult to undo without considerable effort, but the material is softer than the cuffs Graves had you in before, and it gives when you pull one hand down while pushing the other up. Your skin bunches around the cord, but it doesnāt cut into you the way the metal did.Ā
Graves is still fast asleep when you glance over at him. He doesnāt snore, but the rise and fall of his chest under the blanket is steady. Stable.Ā
The fatigue dissipates from your body the second you put it together. That thereās a sliver of a possibility of slipping your hands out of the rope tying you to Graves. The exhilaration is almost overwhelming. You have to sit with it a beat before acting, wary of letting your guard down too fast.
Time passes slowly as you fiddle with the knot, reaching your fingers as far as theyāll go and gritting your teeth through the ensuing cramp in your wrist. You nearly groan in frustration when your hand twitches and you accidentally retighten the knot. A near crushing blow.Ā
Please,Ā you mouth more than whisper, frustrated tears clumped in your lashes. Teeth sinking into the flesh of your bottom lip, pinching off the wail rising up your throat.Ā
Your heart skips a beat when the rope loosens around one of your wrists, enough for you to wiggle a pinkie underneath and slowly shimmy it up the length of your hand. A cramp makes your pinkie spasm, almost causing you to lose your grip. Sweat pools in the cup of your palm.Ā
When your wrists are finally free, the rope clutched in trembling hands and the basal joint of your thumb scrapped raw from the fibrous rope, you can only sit there, heart beating wildly in your chest. You have to force yourself to remain calm, wary of waking Graves up after all that effort. His eyelids quiver only with his dreams though.Ā
You glance towards the door on the other side of the cabin. It seems either farther away now that you know itās within reach. You know better than to just run straight for it though. Weeks of being on the run before finding John have taught you to pace yourself, to push down the fluttering evocation in your chest to make a mad dash for the closest way out.Ā
Instead, you take a deep breath out, closing your eyes until youāve calmed down. Then you rise slowly to your feet.Ā
Your eyes, having long since adjusted to the darkness, scan the room for any loose floorboards. Aside from one obvious corner of the house which has begun to rot away and collapse, itās hard for you to discern at a glance which boards will groan under the weight of your feet. You have no choice but to guess.
Each step has you on edge, heart in your throat. Your focus shifts quicksilver between the floor and Graves. Waiting for any sudden movement.Ā
Halfway to the door, you take another cautious step forward and the floorboard creaks under your foot. Your heart stops, eyes flitting instantly over to Gravesā sleeping form. He doesnāt so much as shift. Itās another beat before youāre able to move again, confidence shaken by the noise. You keep imagining him suddenly shooting up from the floor, pistol in hand, the hammer striking the primer, the hiss of gas escaping the barrel.Ā
The door gives a faint creak when you push it open, so you open it only enough for your body to slip through, wincing when you twitch and accidentally push it open another inch, dragging out the creak. Still, he doesn't wake. You slip past the door, shutting it quietly behind you.Ā Ā
The moon glows cornsilk gold in the sky. A vast, uncharted land stretches out around you, untouched by human hands, or so changed over the years that any human presence has long since been buried beneath the loam.Ā But when you stare out into the distance, you realize that you have no idea where you came from. Everything looks the same in each direction, no landmark familiar enough for you to orient yourself. Youāre out in the middle of nowhere and nothing looks right.Ā
If you had less strength, youād fall to your knees. The despair is so immense that you hardly have the strength to hold it all at once.Ā
The silence lulls you into a false sense of security. You linger for too long, stuck contemplating your options. Coyotes yip in distant packs, their barks carrying across the plains. You shiver at the sound. It reminds you again that youāre on your own now. No husband to come chasing after you if things get sticky.Ā
Your first few steps away from the cabin are tentative, gliding your legs through the grass and staring up at the cornsilk moon. A combination of indulgence and bewilderment. If you knew the right way home, you wouldnāt waver, but these days, you have no faith in your instincts. Theyāve only ever led you off course.Ā
The gelding that Graves rode in on sits in the grass with its hind legs folded underneath it. With its legs still hobbled, you know removing the leather will take more time than you'd like, but you figure it'll be easier to make your way across the plains on horseback, with the added bonus of leaving Graves stranded. If God were just, heād starve out here and leave his corpse for the coyotes to feast on.Ā
You approach the horse cautiously, conscious not to make any sudden movements. Its ears angle towards you as you draw near. Attentive to your presence.Ā
āHey there, honey,ā you whisper, reaching out a hand and trying to show that you arenāt a threat. Its nose twitches.
Another step forward. Easy does it. One leg in front of the other.
āI wonāt hurt you. I promise.ā You try to mirror your memory of John in your voice, honeysuckle soft words.Ā
You arenāt John though. Not even close. You take another step towards it.
It brays when you get too close, skittish. The sound pierces through the night, louder than the coyotes in the distance. Louder even than the creaking door.Ā Ā
The hair on the back of your neck raises, lips numb. Then the prickling awareness of movement in the house, like an itch on a phantom limb.Ā
Behind you, the door to the cabin bursts open with a bang, slamming off the wall and ricocheting back. You whip your head around to look only to find Gravesā towering form under the shadow of the doorway, his hair mused and clothes askew. And he looks enraged.Ā
āHey!āĀ Graves bellows from the doorway, breaking into a run towards you.Ā āGet back here!ā
Thereās no time to sit with the regret, no time to bemoan the fact that you didnāt exercise enough caution, that for some reason without a gun leveled at your head, you allowed yourself to forget the very real danger this man posed to you.Ā
All you can do is run.
The grass whistles around you. You run so hard that your lungs burn, your arms pumping furiously beside you, dress swishing between your legs. You donāt have to look behind you to know that Graves is gaining on you. His body is built for pursuit. Still, you push yourself past your breaking point, not stopping even when you taste blood in your mouth. Mindless; directionless. No idea where youāre goingājust away from him. Youād jump off a cliff if you came across one.Ā
Heās close enough for you to hear now, heavy breathing right behind you. But by then itās too late. A heavy body rams into you, sending you careening towards the earth, the ground rushing up to meet you halfway. The dirt hardly cushions the blow.Ā
You hit the ground hard. Head knocked loose of thought, agony ripping across your face. The double blow of a body heavier than yours forcing you into the dirt, so solid that it crushes the breath from your lungs.Ā
Blood leaks from your lip, most likely split. When you breathe in to fill your lungs, you taste dirt and rust and earth.Ā
āInsufferableĀ bitch,āĀ Graves snarls, putrid breath wafting under your nose and making your eyes water. He grabs a handful of your hair and wrenches your head up before slamming it back down. Something crunches. Distantly, you wonder if your nose is broken.Ā
Your ears ring, the rest of his words drowned out by the blood rushing to your face.Ā
āPleaseāāĀ you beg, blood dripping from your split lip.Ā
āKnew I shouldnāta trusted youāconniving little cuntācāmere now,Ā get upāā
He rises to his feet over your body, big hand curling around your wrist. You hear your shoulder pop when he yanks your arm behind your back. A rush of cold. A sweat breaks on the nape of your neck. Shock sets in the moment after, adrenaline flooding your body.Ā
Then a sharp, focused surge of pain. It radiates from your shoulder outward, so intense that you canāt believe it at first. Your whole world reduces down to it. Feathering out down your back; irradiating waves of it. Thoughts scattering and then coming back together around the pain. If you scream, it comes out unbidden.Ā
āAh, hell, I didnāt mean to do that,ā he grumbles from behind you, likely staring at the unnatural jut of your shoulder. āAlright, sugar, one secondāIāll pop that back in.ā
āNonononoāāĀ you gasp, panic lancing through you, but he pays no attention to your words.Ā
The pain of popping your shoulder back in is excruciating. Relief follows shortly after, but the time between dislocating and relocating your shoulder is so short that it hardly comes as a balm to the pain.
āYouā¦bastardā¦ā you gasp.Ā
āWouldnāta had to do that if you hadnāt run,ā he sighs, the sight of your pain subduing his rage.Ā
It doesnāt stop him from grabbing you roughly by the arm he just dislocated when he finally gets you on your feet though, steering you back towards the house. The pain that radiates up your arm is almost blinding.Ā
He drags you back to the cabin with a punishing grip. Thereās no sympathy when you stumble. Moonlight illuminates the path back to the cabin and shows you the trenches in the wild grass made by your feet. Hardly more than a couple rods.Ā
The defeat that courses through you upon being dragged through the ramshackle front door is ten times that of earlier. When he lets go of your arm, you collapse in a heap on the floor, aching and sweating. A bag of bones and blood. Youād rattle if someone shook you.Ā
āI hate you,ā you mumble from your spot on the floor, shaking through the pain. āRot in hell.ā
Graves doesnāt respond, but you can almost hear the way he grins.Ā Ā
No rest for the wicked or the good this time. Graves wakes intermittently throughout the night to check up on you, wary now that youāve tried to run. Your regret is palpable. You shouldāve waited. Bided your time. There won't be another chance now, not after you played your hand so soon.Ā
The ache in your shoulder keeps you from finding sleep. Every time you get close to it, the pain radiates down your arm and it slips from your grasp, your hand closing around the empty space it leaves behind. Teeth grit, breathing through the pain. Loosening your jaw and panting because the pain overwhelms you when you so much as shift onto your side, the hard floor digging into your elbow.Ā
Right on the edge of sleep, just as you're about to latch on, a boot catches you in the ribs, jostling you back into the realm of pain. You wheeze, breaking into a coughing fit.Ā
āGet up,ā a hoarse voice grunts above you, empty of sympathy. āWe got places to be.ā
He has the two of you back on the horse as soon as dawn breaks. Your escape attempt the night before must have spooked him, and you regret it now in the light of day because you know he wonāt let you out of his sight again. The metal handcuffs digging into your wrists assures you of that.Ā
Thereās no time for breakfast or time to wash up. Graves makes it a point to be back on the road as fast as possible, repacking his bedroll and stuffing it back in the saddlebag before dragging you up with him.Ā
The pain is a dull throb after sleeping most of the agony away. It comes back when you move too quickly though, which is hard to avoid on horseback when each gallop echoes through your sore bones and joints.Ā
The arching sun immixes with the heavens above, rising higher as the hours pass. You ache for a hat; something to keep the heat of the sun off your head. On the horizon, the mountain ridge sits like a spine bursting out from the earth. Itās all wastelands and portents. Evil omens.Ā
Your heart feels swollen and bruised, like something trampled under elk hooves.Ā
āCheer up,ā Graves says, tipping your chin up when the sun reaches its peak around midday, the gesture making you so uncomfortable that you almost shudder out of your skin. Your face still throbs with pain. āYou should be glad I didnāt jusā shoot you.ā
Your lips pull back, baring your teeth to nothing.Ā
A shot rips through the air at that, his words commanding it into being. Your head instinctively ducks and even the horse under you staggers, spooked by the sound. Graves curses, tensing up behind you.
"What in the hellā"
You whip your head around to stare behind you, looking for the source of the gunfire. When you find it, your eyes widen.
probably going to be radio silent for a few days while I settle into uni :ā). but i am cooking and hopefully writing will take my mind off of everything.
mmmm going off on ghost when he gets into one of his possessive/overbearing moods and saying something flippant like "we're not even married, simon" & bc his wires got crossed a few too many times he hears that as a proposal and permission to forge your signature on a marriage license <3 problem solved
Thoughts on the first time you give your man a back rub after a long day. (Some of them are nicer about it than others.)
nsfw/mdni/18+/daddy stuff
Simon - He's never been touched like that before. Who would voluntarily reach out to offer him comfort? He doesn't exactly scream "pet me, I don't bite." It makes him ticklish, but he's not the type to giggle and shy away. No, he doesn't want you to stop, but he doesn't know what to do either. So, he just tenses up, grits his teeth, eye twitching under his mask, skin crawling as you run your fingertips over the skin of his back, his shoulders, down to his waist.
After a minute or two, you realize he's more uncomfortable than when you started, so you pull back. "I'm sorry. I was only trying to help."
"You know how you can help me, lovie?" He unbuckles his pants and pulls out the only part of him left that feels anything uncomplicated.
Kyle - He's upset, at the unfairness of it all. Ranting and raving about the mission and the particulars. It should've been easy, people could've been killed. But as your hands move in wide circles along his neck and his spine, he quiets down. He forgets what he was so angry about. His breaths slow and his eyes close. His head rolls back until you think maybe he fell asleep.
So, you stop, just for a minute. Until he moans your name and kisses your wrist. "Enough about me, baby. How was your day? Want to go out for dinner?"
Johnny - The second you lay your hands on him, he starts to boss you around. "A little to the left." "Ah, that's it, lower." "Don't be shy, use your nails." "Harder."
Before you know it, you're playing 'Whack-a-mole' with the itch running around his back muscles and across his chest. He's stomping his foot like a dog and leaning into your touch. You're behind his ears and under his arms, down the waist of his boxers.
He's moaning like you're giving him the best fuck of his life, and when your roommate happens to poke their head out from the kitchen to see what the commotion is all about, it's just the big Scot with his shirt pulled up around his neck and your legs spread across his lap for better access to his hairy abs.
John - Like Simon, physical touch is a mixed bag for him. Most people who sneak up behind him want him dead, so he's more prepared for a knife than a kind pair of hands.
But he trusts you, he reminds himself. And he has a lot of hair, so it does get itchy. Especially in the heat after a long day. He pays for your maintenance--hair, nails, clothes--so it's only fair that he gets to enjoy everything his money gets him.
"Do you like this, daddy?" You knead his knotted muscles with your thumbs and mindlessly run your meticulously filed nails through the coarse salt and pepper curls along his back and chest.
Maybe the nicer you are to him, the nicer he'll be later.
āWhat? Why?ā Itās not like you were planning on it. You have a pair of jeans wedged under your arm, and youāre currently searching through your shirts for something medium-cute.
Your boyfriend sighs on the other end of the line. āWear a hoodie. Maybe one of mine, with the hood up.ā
āWhat the fuck, Kyle? Are you embarrassed of me?ā
āNo, Iā¦ I just think itās for the best.ā
You frown, moving your phone closer to your ear so you can hear every change in his voice. āWhat are you afraid of?ā
āNothin. Just wear the hoodie. Please, sweetheart.ā
Fine.
You show up on base later in a stupid hoodie with the stupid hood up, bringing Kyle his stupid passkey that he stupidly forgot to grab this morning. Heās waiting for you at the front desk, so you donāt even have to check in.
You get a quick kiss and a fervent, āThanks, really,ā from your boyfriend, and then just as youāre opening your mouth to demand an explanationā
āAHH! Ahh! I fookin knew it!ā
Some asshole with a mohawk is suddenly striding up to you, arms outstretched and beaming as if itās Christmas morning.
āChrist, Soap,ā Kyle groans, putting himself slightly between you and the oncoming threat, āwill you justāā
āGhost!ā the man calls over his shoulder, undeterred. āGet your arse over here, Gaz finally brought that āfriendā to meet us!ā
Kyle pulls you into his side, whispering, āI am so sorry.ā
āThe one from the photo?ā rumbles a new voice. āAhh, yeah, it is.ā
Turns out heās been hiding your existence from his coworkers all this time, but that didnāt stop them from glimpsing his phone background one day when he wasnāt paying attention. Theyād been hounding him ever since.
Since Iāve had nearly like four heart attacks just by being driven though Manchester alone hereās the types of drivers I think the 141 are;
Iāve covered this in OMHH, but Johnnyās a fucking menace. Does not indicate, the rules of the road are just a guideline to him. Might as well be colourblind the way he runs lights because honestly he really doesnāt care. Blasts 80s rock and generally causes a disturbance. Very aware of where all the coppers kick around though. Has had a few points off his license.
Price hates city driving. It absolutely drives him round the bend. Moans about the price of petrol every time he goes past a station, moans about roundabouts and roads and carriageways and just about everything. Put him on a country road though and heās happy as larry. People will pull over to let him speed past (they have no choice, really, because heās not slowing down). He knows those roads like the back of his hand. Horrific road rage in the city, but heās very amenable in the country.
Simon is also a fucking menace, but not intentionally. He can drive, the problem is that he had to fork out quite a bit of cash for a car that he could actually squeeze into. He wanted something cheap, a shitbox to get from one place to another, but the moment he sat in one he heard the suspension creak and decided against it. He sort of just zones out when heās driving and winds up veering into the wrong lane. Takes corners like a madman. Does NOT check his mirrors, and his road rage consists of pulling over and knocking someoneās lights out.
Kyle is a wonderful driver, until someone cuts him up or overtakes him and then thereās hell on. He will not be out boyracer-ed by some pillock in a jacked up Ford fiesta. Acts very sportsman and gentleman-like when he beats them out in an unofficial street race, but inside heās absolutely buzzing. Insanely good music taste, very polite and always does his hand signals. Drives one-handed, and even if he has a rear camera heāll do that thing where he swings one hand on the other seat and look out the back window.
Johnny with a scent kink so strong he has to condition you to be the same way because he can get off to your used panties alone and he's starting to take it personally that you can't do the same when he holds your face to his crotch and swaps your air for his musk. So he keeps you there until you work yourself up, sitting as patiently as he ever thought he'd be able to manage while watching you whine, your pretty little fingers just barely manage to get the task done. And he makes you wear his hoodie when he fucks you, balling it up to shove into your mouth when it starts running about how you're gonna cum and your cunts squeezing him so hard it's a miracle he manages to hold off until he can see you cream on him. You know he's won when he starts holding your face to his pit when you're getting close when you're too busy huffing and whimpering to complain about it, your theory and his training proving true the next time he's on deployment and the smell of his pillow is enough to get you wrapping yourself around it, grinding down against the yielding material in mounting frustration until you nearly suffocate yourself, panting into his pillow like Johnny would, like a bitch in heat.
just cried all morning packing the van to move into uni lol. I need something to distract me for my little five hour drive so if anyone has like any writing prompts pls drop them in my inbox im desperate
thinking about older and retired alpha!Price (like heās at least fifty-five) who never settled down and got old enough to worry if he could even still make it happen finding a collapsed Omega outside of his door. Theyāve got a bond mark but it looks old and faded and they donāt smell all too happy, and he never had the chance to really settle down so he just sort ofā¦herds them inside. They donāt talk about the bondmark, he doesnāt ask, and heās more than happy with the company.
The fact that he smelled the pre-heat on them the moment he opened the door is unimportant. What is important is the feeling of his teeth sinking into their neck mid-fuck, breaking over the old scar while they keen and kick beneath him, scratch lines into his skin and beg for his knot.
Someone might come calling, eventually, looking to claim back an omega they believed to be theirs. But John keeps a pistol loaded by the door for a reason, and if the sight of ātheirā omega padding around with a swollen stomach of Johnās making isnāt enough, he reckons a few bullets will be.
