stupid cupid

minors do not interact! cupid. she/her. 20s. currently obsessing over cod men

[missuscupid]

✦ 18+ only! minors & ageless accounts - do not interact or you will be blocked. ✦

♡ welcome to my secret side blog! call me cupid. she/her. 21+. pansexual.

♡ cursed with brain rot for older, morally grey men

♡ a mess of half-baked headcanons and purely indulgent writing pieces; nsfw + sfw!

♡ requests are open! currently writing for call of duty!

♡ (mostly neglected) masterlist / find writing under tag "cupid writes"

[feralforfictionalmen]

western pleasure; simon riley

⋆˖°.℧𖤓𓄀𐚁𓃗.°˖⋆

outlaw!ghost x afab!reader | series masterlist | wild west

summary: in a desperate, last ditch-attempt to escape your abusive husband's wrath, you encounter the man you've only heard legends of - a man named ghost.

cw: use of guns/weapons. depictions of violence, gore, death, domestic abuse. mentions of sexual assault, abuse. explicit sexual content, smut. mdni, 18+

➳ part one: flesh and blood

➳ part two: skin and bone

➳ part three: debts and demands

➳ part four: dawn and dusk

➳ part five: leather and lace

➳ part six: secrets and lies

➳ part seven

➳ part eight

[silverlullabies]

Alternative Part three of the boys getting dosed by Truth Serum but instead of Soap and Ghost, it was Price

Part one || part two

Through the one way glass, you watched Captain John Price sit in the interrogation chair. He wasn’t the one being questioned, that privilege had belonged to a Konni courier who’d breathed something in the holding cell and started singing like a canary before she face planted.

Then you watched Price inhale a lungful of the same shimmering mist as he hauled the woman out.

“Truth serum,” Laswell had muttered, already on comms with medical. “As the name implies it compels honesty. Doesn’t impair cognition. Side effects include sweating, blushing, and unwanted life choices.”

“Brilliant,” Gaz said. “So like tequila, but without the dancing.”

They pulled Price out when it became clear the courier was done and the only man suffering in there was the one suddenly not allowing himself to speak. His jaw was locked so hard the tendon stood out like a steel cable. He took one look at you through the glass and looked away, like the sun hurt.

“Cap.” Soap did an uncertain little wave. “How we doin’?”

Price held a thumb up. Then lowered it. Then stuck it halfway. He wasn’t sweating. He was steaming.

Ghost dragged in a chair and plunked it behind him. “Sit.”

Price sat. Forearms on thighs. Hands braced. Eyes closed like he was negotiating with God.

Ghost set a water bottle at his boot and helpfully placed a brand new roll of duct tape on the table.

Price didn’t look at the tape. He put a pencil crosswise between his molars like a bit, clasped his hands together, and settled into the purity of not saying a single word.

You tried to keep your face neutral, clipboard steady. It would be fine. You’d all been exposed to worse in the field. And, as Laswell had said, cognition intact. He could choose not to talk.

“Right,” Gaz whispered, leaning in at your shoulder. “Worst case, he confesses to… I dunno… tax evasion?”

“Arson,” Soap offered. “At the 2018 holiday party. There’s a spark in his eye.”

Ghost cocked his head. “He’ll say he doesn’t actually like us.”

“John?” Laswell tried first. “Vitals feel okay? Nod or shake.”

He nodded.

“Any dizziness?”

Shake.

“Good. We’ll keep it yes/no, then.” And then because she couldn’t help herself. “Crimes you’d like to disclose?”

Price side eyed her like she’d asked if he flossed. Shake.

Soap folded his arms. “He’s gonna break on ‘I once hotboxed a Land Rover.’”

Price’s knuckles went white. The pencil groaned between his molars like a tree in a gale. A vein in his temple ticked; sweat gathered at his hairline and crawled down the sideburn into his beard. He squeezed his eyes shut, opened them, shut them again like maybe if he blinked hard enough he could reboot his soul.

“He’s blanching like a Victorian heroine,” Gaz whispered, delighted.

Soap leaned in, elbows down. “Blink if ye need a priest, Cap.”

“John,” Laswell said, calm in the way of someone spiritually clocking out, “please continue not talking if that’s your choice.”

Price rolled his shoulders back like he was trying to lower his resting truth rate. His hands laced together so hard the knuckles bulged, tendons like cable. He refused to look at you. He looked near you: at your clipboard, your sleeve, the smear of light on the glass.

Soap nudged Gaz. “Ask him something mean.”

Gaz nodded, solemn. “Captain, do you secretly not give a toss about us?”

Price stared at Gaz, then Ghost, then Soap, then briefly, fatally at you. He gave a single, stubborn shake no.

Ghost raised a brow. “We all heard the swallow. He’s on the ropes.”

Price took the pencil out just long enough to flex his jaw. The joint popped like a knuckle. He put the pencil back and bit down harder. His thigh bounced once. Twice. His shirt stuck to him at the chest. The truth wanted out.

Soap slid a legal pad toward him. “Write it, then. Honesty tae paper.”

Price pushed the pad back with one furious finger. No.

He lasted a beat longer.

Then your pen slipped from your clipboard, clacked across the tile, and his control detonated like a landmine.

The pencil dropped. He sat forward, elbows on his knees, head down, and spoke in a low, wrecked voice that felt like it had been waiting behind his teeth for a year:

“I want you to call me Daddy.”

Your soul tripped over its own shoes. Gaz made a kettle noise. Soap slapped both hands over his mouth like he’d just watched a penguin ride a skateboard. Ghost sat perfectly still, eyes bright.

Laswell blinked once.

Twice.

Then, very calmly, like a woman choosing peace, she said, “I could leave and go raise goats.”

No one listened.

Price lifted his head an inch. Just enough for you to see his face flushed, wrecked, eyes blown dark like the truth had finally chewed through his restraints and was now pacing the room.

The air in the room turned molten.

“I want you to call me Daddy. Loud. I want it to echo in that pretty mouth when you can’t even think straight.” His voice was ruined, hoarse, low, gravel edged, rolling right over the dead silence that followed. “I think all the time about your lips wrapped around my cock, tears in your eyes, gagging a little ‘cause you’re greedy and you want to show off. I want to make you drool, sweetheart. Want to see you on your knees with spit all over your chin, eyes up, waiting for permission just so you can swallow me down like a good girl.”

Soap let out a yelp, clapped both hands over his face. “Oh, hell, Cap, you’re a menace!”

Gaz wheezed, delighted. “This is the best episode of Maury I’ve ever seen.”

Price’s eyes burned holes in you. “I want you bent over my desk, skirt rucked up, arse bare, panties stuffed in your mouth so everyone knows you can’t shut up unless I make you. Want you whimpering, spread for me, dripping so fucking much I ruin the paperwork under you.”

Ghost just nodded, as if listening to the world’s most interesting podcast. “He’s not even breathing between lines.”

Laswell hummed. “I have a passport. There’s a farm in the Pyrenees. I can grow olives, forget this ever happened…”

Price couldn’t stop. Couldn’t even slow down. He was sweating, voice gone pure command, and his words turned filthier, rougher, “Want to fuck you so deep you can’t walk straight. Want you to feel every inch for days. Want to leave my handprint on your ass, my cum dripping down your thighs, my name on your lips while you thank me for wrecking you.”

Soap had to get up and walk it off, cackling. “He’s going feral, mate! Christ!”

Gaz’s face was halfway between horror and applause. “I’m taking notes. For science.”

Ghost deadpanned, “At least we know what to put on your tombstone: ‘Here lies John Price- filthiest mouth in the SAS.’”

Price only stared at you, locked on target, sweating through his shirt. “I want to hear you call me Daddy while you try to keep quiet, knowing anyone could walk by. I want you so fucked out you can’t even remember your own name, only mine, only ‘please’ and ‘more’ and ‘yes, Daddy, anything you want.’ I want you broken in on my cock, ruined for anyone else, knowing you’ll ache for me every time you sit down.”

The words just kept coming, rolling out of him like he’d been saving them for years.

“Want to see you gag on it, feel your throat clench, hear you struggle to say ‘thank you, Daddy’ with your mouth full. Want to fuck you so slow you beg, then hold you down and rail you till you’re cockdrunk and babbling. Want you crying with it, wet and desperate, begging for permission to come, only to make you wait, make you work for it, tell you what a filthy little thing you are.”

You could barely breathe. The room was spinning. Soap was crying laughing. Gaz was fanning himself with a folder. Ghost looked like he wanted to buy popcorn.

Laswell didn’t even look at them. She was staring at the far wall like a portal might open. “I’m selling everything I own and moving to a vineyard in Portugal. I don’t even like wine.”

Ghost stage whispered, “Ask him about kinks, Johnny.”

Soap, hoarse: “Cap, top three kinks, go.”

Price didn’t miss a beat. “Obedience. Gagging. Telling you what a desperate slut you are while you soak my cock and beg for Daddy to fill you up.”

Gaz wheezed. “Fucking hell.”

Price smirked, dark and proud. “And I’d make you say thank you for every filthy thing I do to you, or you get nothing but my hand around your throat and my voice in your ear, telling you how pretty you look when you’re ruined.”

Soap made an inhuman noise. Gaz buried his face in his elbow, shoulders shaking, and Ghost just leaned back in his chair, the living embodiment of well, this is my entertainment for the week.

Price, now fully in his element, fixed you with that steel blue stare. “You ever want it, sweetheart, you come ask Daddy nice. I’ll show you exactly what happens when you mouth off in my office.”

Soap, literally on the floor, gasping: “That’s it, I’m dead, tell my mum I loved her.”

Price’s head tipped, tongue rolling over his teeth. He was panting, cheeks flushed. “I want to wreck you. Want to fuck you so hard you can’t talk, just little broken sounds, choking on my cock or my fingers or both if you’re lucky. I’d edge you for hours, make you beg. Tell you to be a good little slut and come for Daddy. And you would, wouldn’t you? ‘Cause you’d do anything I told you if I had my hand around your throat, wouldn’t you?”

Your heart was a jackhammer. Your mouth was dry. Your knees felt like they were going to give out, and you weren’t even the one in the chair.

Laswell pinched the bridge of her nose, her soul miles away. “Goats don’t do this. Goats don’t talk about throats and cocks. Goats just eat grass. I want a goat. I want a vineyard. I never want to hear the word ‘Daddy’ again.”

Price looked at you then, finally, locking you in place. His voice dropped to a dangerous, commanding purr. want to ruin your makeup, fuck you until you cry, kiss it all better. I want you up against a wall, skirt around your waist, legs over my shoulders while I eat your pussy till you scream my name. Want you on the conference table, on the floor of the safehouse, in the showers, hands flat on the tiles, steam everywhere, my hand tangled in your hair, hips slamming into you while you beg me not to stop. Want you so used to my cock you can’t cum without it.”

Soap let out a wheeze. “Boss, please, tell us you’d at least let ‘er cum- ”

Price snarled, “Not till I say. I want you desperate, sobbing, begging. Want to hear you say ‘please, Daddy, please, I’ll be good, I promise- ’ and then maybe I’ll give it to you. Or maybe I’ll make you watch while I fist your hair and finish on your pretty face instead.”

Ghost just shook his head, approving. “Dirty bastard.”

Price’s words kept pouring, breathless, dirty as sin. “You wanna know what else? I want you to text me while I’m in meetings, let me see how wet you are, send me photos, tell me what you need. Want to come home and find you waiting, naked, on your knees at the door, eyes wide, ready to please. Want to spit in your mouth, hear you say ‘thank you,’ see you shiver when I call you my filthy little thing.”

The room was pure chaos. Soap had his head on the table. Gaz had to step outside, tears of laughter streaming down his face. Ghost only folded his arms, deeply satisfied, watching the spectacle.

Laswell paused. “I am absolutely buying a farm. I will have goats and silence. I will never set foot in a military base again. I’m going to forget I ever knew anyone named John.”

Price finally ran out of air.

Not restraint- air.

He leaned back in the chair, chest heaving, sweat darkening the collar of his shirt, eyes blown and feral like he’d just survived a firefight entirely inside his own head. The room was dead silent for half a heartbeat.

Then Laswell stood up so abruptly her chair screeched.

“I am,” she said flatly. “Googling how many goats are too many goats, because whatever the answer is, I’m buying one more.”

She was already pulling her phone out. “I’m thinking vineyard. Hillside. Sun. No men. No truth serums. No one named John. Just me, some grapes, and several emotionally supportive goats.”

Soap was crying laughing now. Fully gone. Bent double, one hand on the table, the other wiping tears from his eyes. “Cap- Captain- ” he wheezed, “I’ve been in firefights with less casualties than whatever the fuck that was.”

Gaz was grinning like Christmas came early. “I’m never calling you ‘sir’ again. It’s ruined. It’s irreparably ruined.”

You, meanwhile, were pretty sure you were experiencing some kind of medical event.

Your face felt like it was on fire. Your ears were ringing. The room tilted just a little, like you’d stood up too fast. You had both hands braced on the table now, clipboard abandoned entirely, desperately pretending that the concrete floor was the most interesting thing you’d ever seen.

Soap noticed immediately. “Oh look,” he sing songed. “She’s short circuiting.”

Gaz leaned into your space, stage whispering. “Blink twice if you need a paper bag. Or a cold shower. Or a priest.”

Ghost tilted his head, eyes flicking between you and Price. “She’s gone pink. That’s new.”

Price snapped his head up. “Oi. Back off.” His voice was rough, but the edge was protective now, control snapping back into place. “Enough.”

Soap held up his hands, still grinning. “All right, all right. We’ll stop traumatising her.” A beat. “Mostly.”

Laswell finally looked up from her phone. “For the record, the internet says there is no such thing as too many goats. Which feels like a sign.”

She pointed at all of them. “Debrief over. Medical can deal with Captain… whatever that was. You three- out. Before I start assigning mandatory therapy.”

Ghost stood smoothly, clearly pleased with the day’s work. “Aye. Good talk, Captain Daddy.”

Price threw the roll of duct tape at his head.

[drmonstersdungeon]

It’s been hot.

Record highs.

Hell has been released onto earth for all of its people to suffer.

“Forgot your knickers.” He grabs a handful of her ass as he helps her settle against his lap. His big hands knead at the fat there, giving it a swift tap when she doesn't settle.

“Too hot for them.” She murmurs peeling up the edges of his mask to taste the sweat that beads on his skin. It tastes sharp and tangy and always a little metallic like war clings to his skin even here.

He groans when her bare cunt rubs against his jeans in just the right way. He could do this for hours, watch her hump herself silly in his lap. She was too young for him sometimes, yowling at all hours of night like a bitch in heat. Or more like a slag with no daddy.

“Maybe if you can get yourself off before I finish this cigarette, I might fuck ya.” Simon smirks as he wraps his lips around the filter of the cigarette.

He should feel bad for doing this, but he really can't be arsed. Not when it’s this good. Not when she let’s him fuck her like this.

“That’s it.” He praises meaty paw fisted in her hair as he fucked her cunt. “That’s what girls like you are for. Your daddy wasn’t around enough and now it left an empty hole waiting to be filled by me.” He grinds into her roughly to listen to her make that punched out whine against the wood of his desk.

“Wish you wouldn’t talk about my dad.” She manages to rasp, his cock feels like it’s kissing her cervix each time he rocks forward, her oversensitive clit grinding deliciously against the desk.

“What? Would daddy Price be ashamed to see his little girl like this?” Simon coos in her ear “It’s his own fault you're like this. He should have stayed home and you wouldn't be out looking in the streets for a daddy.” He emphasizes this with a thrust. She doesn't even dignify that with an answer because yes, he would be ashamed. He might even kill his best friend, but that doesn't deter either of them. If anything it makes her cunt clench around him tighter.

[glazedvanilladonut]

SHARED.

simon riley x john price x könig x reader

summary: simon lets the others take a turn with his perfect girl.

warnings: smut no plot, established relationship (simon+reader), threesome/foursome, double penetration (vaginal), oral (m receiving), overstimulation, choking, name-calling, spanking, praise kink, degration kink, possessiveness, rough sex, multiple partners, pet names (bunny, etc), crying during sex, soft aftercare. wc: 4.8k words of pure filth

you don’t even remember how it started.

simon had been possessive all week — keeping you close, fucking you harder than usual, always muttering shit like mine under his breath when he thought you weren’t listening.

you knew why.

the way könig and price kept looking at you.

price had always been a little too familiar. liked talking to you when simon was gone. liked watching your mouth when you drank from your water bottle. liked the way you bit your lip when you were nervous and looked down when he stared too long.

könig was quieter about it. more subtle. always careful — respectful. but it was the way he moved when you were in the room. the way his eyes dragged over your legs. the way his voice dipped when he said your name.

and maybe you weren’t as innocent as you pretended to be.

maybe you liked the attention.

maybe that’s why you wore those shorts around base. maybe that’s why you always laughed a little too hard at their jokes. maybe that’s why, when price caught your chin between his fingers that night and said “bet you’d look even prettier with tears down your cheeks” — you didn’t pull away.

you looked at simon.

and he didn’t stop him.

he just said, “don’t be gentle with her. she can take it.”

your knees hit the mattress first.

you’re already naked, already breathless, and simon’s behind you with his hand curled around the back of your neck, pressing your chest into the sheets.

“look at her,” price mutters from the end of the bed, voice thick. “fuckin’ droolin’ already.”

“poor thing,” könig hums behind his mask, kneeling beside you. “is this too much, maus?”

you shake your head fast, squirming under simon’s hold. your thighs are already sticky, your cunt clenching around nothing. you’ve never been so worked up just from being looked at.

simon leans down and kisses your temple.

“good girl,” he murmurs. “you tell me if it’s too much, yeah? color system?”

you nod.

“green,” you breathe. “i’m good.”

price chuckles.

“we’ll see how long that lasts.”

simon fucks you first.

he says it’s to get you “warmed up,” but he’s just greedy — he has to be inside you before anyone else.

you’re on your back now, legs open, hands pinned above your head. simon’s above you, slow and deep and filthy with the way he talks you through it.

“look at you,” he murmurs, thumb brushing your bottom lip. “so fuckin’ pretty underneath me. takin’ my cock like you were made for it.”

you whimper. your back arches. he’s hitting every spot, slow and mean, just enough to make your toes curl.

“she always this loud?” price mutters from the chair in the corner, watching with his legs spread. he’s palming his cock through his jeans. “or are you showin’ off, sweetheart?”

you moan louder on purpose.

simon leans down, kisses your throat, then licks a long stripe up to your jaw.

“she wants to show off,” he says, low. “let her.”

“slut,” price mutters, unzipping. “she’ll be beggin’ for more soon enough.”

könig’s beside the bed now, his massive hand stroking slowly as he watches your cunt stretch around simon’s cock.

“du bist wunderschön,” he says under his breath, voice thick. “so warm… so wet…”

you’re soaked. it’s obscene — the way you’re already shaking, already clinging to simon’s back like you can’t take it.

but you don’t tell him to stop.

you need more.

simon lets you come twice before he pulls out.

he’s still so gentle with you — his voice low, his praise soft — but he holds you down while you writhe through your second orgasm, pressing kisses to your jaw while his cock slides out of your soaked cunt with a wet, messy sound.

“that’s it, baby,” he murmurs. “good girl. that’s my sweet girl.”

you’re still panting, thighs trembling, skin flushed and sticky when price comes up behind him.

“move.”

simon raises a brow.

price looks calm — terrifyingly calm — while he strokes himself lazily, eyes trained on your wrecked body like he’s already imagining you in tears again.

“you said don’t be gentle,” he mutters, sliding two fingers between your folds, spreading your slick. “gonna hold to that.”

simon doesn’t argue. just kisses your cheek and steps aside.

price grabs you by the hips, flips you fast, and presses your face into the sheets.

you don’t even have time to gasp before he spits on your cunt and slides in with one deep thrust.

you scream.

“oh, there she is,” he mutters, hips snapping into yours. “that’s what i fuckin’ thought. mouthy little brat’s just a cock-drunk whore.”

his pace is brutal. fast. mean. no build-up. he’s fucking you like he’s trying to prove a point, and maybe he is — maybe he wants you ruined. destroyed. too dumb to even remember your name.

you’re crying, one hand gripping the sheets, the other reaching behind you like you don’t know if you want to push him away or pull him deeper.

“look at her,” he growls, yanking your hair back. “simon, you fuckin’ train her like this? can’t even take a proper pounding.”

“she can take it,” simon says, sitting at the edge of the bed, watching with his cock in hand. “she just needs a minute.”

price slaps your ass — hard.

you jolt, sobbing.

“no minutes. not for sluts.”

he wraps a hand around your throat and pulls you back, so your spine arches and you’re crying out into the air.

“what are you?”

“i-i’m a slut—”

“what kind?”

“f-for you—”

he slaps your tit.

“louder.”

“m’your slut, captain—!”

you hear simon groan under his breath. you see könig bite his lip through the mask.

“scheiße,” könig whispers. “she’s perfect.”

price finally lets go of your throat and pulls out. you’re trembling — wrecked — barely holding yourself up on your elbows.

“flip her again,” he mutters. “wanna see her face when she gags.”

you’re dizzy, flushed, breathless, but you obey — roll to your back, eyes glassy.

könig leans over you, massive hands gripping your thighs as he pulls you down the mattress toward him.

“you okay, liebling?” he murmurs, lowering his mask just enough to kiss your temple. “you say the word, we stop.”

you nod fast, throat tight.

“g-green.”

he kisses you again — softer this time — then slides his cock between your lips.

and you try to be good.

you really do.

but könig’s big, thicker than you expected, and he goes slow at first — until he hears simon whisper “she can take more” behind you, and then he grabs your jaw with both hands and starts fucking your mouth deep.

you gag, throat flexing, spit sliding down your chin.

price slides two fingers back into your cunt and starts fucking you while könig’s cock is in your mouth.

“this what you wanted?” price mutters, watching the way your thighs twitch. “fuckin’ messy little girl with her mouth full and her cunt wide open?”

simon’s behind you now, kissing your neck, stroking your ribs.

“you’re doin’ so good, bunny,” he whispers. “they don’t even know how perfect you are yet.”

you try to moan but könig groans low and holds your head down, cock deep in your throat while your eyes roll back.

you’re losing it. barely holding on. overstimmed already.

and they haven’t even fucked you together yet.

you’re trembling.

legs wide. thighs soaked. arms limp on the mattress while price fingers you open and simon kisses your cheek and könig strokes his cock just a few inches from your face.

“gonna give her a minute?” simon murmurs, thumb brushing your ribs. “she’s sensitive.”

price scoffs.

“she’ll live.”

you whimper.

price pulls his fingers out — and spits on your cunt again. your thighs twitch. simon grips your hand, gently, lovingly.

“breathe, baby,” he whispers. “i got you.”

price’s cock is already hard again. he rubs the tip through your folds, presses the head against your pussy — and simon does the same right behind him.

your eyes go wide.

“w-wait—”

price slaps your thigh.

“you can take it.”

“we’ll go slow, bunny,” simon murmurs, softer. “just breathe. i won’t let go.”

and he doesn’t.

he stays right beside you, holding your hand, kissing your shoulder, whispering you can do it, sweet girl, while two thick cocks start pushing into your pussy at once.

you sob. whimper. gasp.

you’ve never been this full. never been stretched this wide.

your eyes roll back.

“fuck,” price growls. “tight little thing.”

“she’s takin’ it so good,” simon mutters. “fuckin’ angel.”

when they bottom out — both of them — you’re a mess.

tears spill down your cheeks. your thighs tremble violently. simon kisses them.

“that’s my girl.”

price grabs your jaw.

“say it,” he hisses. “tell me you’re a cockdrunk whore.”

you whimper.

“i-i’m— i’m a cockdrunk whore—”

“fuckin’ right you are.”

they start to move.

slow at first — long, grinding thrusts that make you sob — then faster. rougher. harder.

you can barely breathe.

you’re so full. too full. every stroke makes you shudder, shake, scream, twitch. there’s no space to think, no chance to catch your breath.

simon’s praising you.

price is degrading you.

you’re just their bunny. their fuckpet. their slut.

and then könig kneels beside your head and lifts his mask again.

“open,” he growls, and you do — you open wide, tongue out, drool already spilling — and he shoves his cock into your throat while the other two keep fucking you.

you gag.

you twitch.

you cry.

price slaps your tits.

simon rubs your clit.

könig whispers good girl while he fucks your throat and cups your cheek and watches your eyes glaze over with dumb, messy tears.

your body’s on fire.

“she’s gonna break,” simon whispers, watching you fall apart.

“good,” price mutters, gritting his teeth. “that’s what she wanted, innit?”

könig’s thrusts get sloppy — rough and fast — and he grunts a warning, one big hand gripping your jaw tight.

he pulls out and groans low as he finishes on your tits.

simon’s still holding your hand.

you sob through it.

then simon kisses your temple and moves behind you — gently brushing your hair back — and price shifts in front.

“again,” price growls. “until she screams.”

you’re limp now.

completely soft in simon’s arms, thighs shaking and sore, pretty mouth open as he strokes his fingers along your cheek and whispers praises in your ear.

“you did so good, bunny. so fuckin’ good for us.”

you whimper.

your cunt’s still twitching. stretched, aching, wet and swollen. you’re still leaking from the last round and now—now könig’s huge hand is sliding down your belly and between your legs.

“shhh, mein schatz,” he murmurs, kissing your jaw. “you’re okay. just breathe.”

your whole body twitches.

you shake your head. you try to say “too much” but it comes out like a breathless whine and—

“c’mon, sweetheart,” price growls behind you. “you think we’d stop just ‘cause you’re sobbing?”

könig leans down, voice a low rumble in your ear.

“i’ll be gentle,” he lies.

you cry harder.

simon cups your face.

“breathe for me, bunny. i’m right here.”

you blink up at him. try to focus. try to think. but then könig’s fingers are inside you again—two, then three—and he’s groaning when he feels how sloppy and warm you still are.

“you’re ready for me,” he says, voice low and dark. “ready for my cock.”

price laughs.

“that ruined cunt’s ready for anyone.”

you flinch—but simon kisses your forehead.

“don’t listen to him,” he whispers. “you’re perfect, baby. fuckin’ perfect.”

“and filthy,” price adds. “don’t forget that.”

you’re crying before könig’s even inside you.

but when he presses in—slow, thick, deeper than deep—your body seizes, and simon has to hold you tighter just to keep you from shaking apart.

“good girl,” könig growls, cock sliding in inch by inch. “my brave, brave girl.”

you sob into simon’s neck.

his arms wrap tighter.

“you’re okay,” he says gently. “he’s almost there. you’re takin’ it so well.”

you feel so full you might break.

your cunt spasms and clenches and your hips jerk up without meaning to, and könig growls again, grabs your thighs, and starts to fuck into you—harder. deeper. steady and slow but so brutal, like he’s trying to reach your heart through your cunt.

price watches from the end of the bed.

arms crossed. amused.

“can’t believe she’s still takin’ cock,” he mutters.

“’course she is,” simon murmurs, kissing your cheek. “she’s my good girl.”

“your good girl’s droolin’.”

he’s right.

you are.

your mouth is open, jaw slack, tears spilling from your eyes and spit slipping down your chin, but you don’t care. all you can feel is könig, simon, simon, könig, praise and pressure and pain all tangled into something unbearable.

and then—

könig’s hand closes around your throat.

you whine—loud and high—and simon grabs your hand, kisses it, presses it to his chest like he’s anchoring you while könig chokes you with one hand and fucks you with the other.

“feel that?” könig growls. “feel how tight you are?”

you nod frantically.

“say it.”

“…so tight,” you sob. “s-so f-full—”

he thrusts deeper, harder.

your eyes roll back.

“you’re gonna come again,” simon whispers. “i know you are, bunny. just one more, yeah?”

you shake your head, but you’re already close.

your body knows it better than your mind.

price leans forward.

“you come on his cock, i’ll make you come again after,” he mutters. “don’t be shy, sweetheart. show us how fuckin’ filthy you are.”

you moan.

you scream.

you break.

your body convulses, mouth wide, eyes shut, and your orgasm hits like lightning—shaking through you, raw, endless—and könig fucks you through it like he’s trying to split you in two.

simon just holds you.

whispers soft praise.

presses kisses to your sweaty forehead like you’re not being ruined right in front of him.

you barely register when it ends.

könig pulls out slow, careful. simon whispers something against your temple. price grunts as he wipes you down with a warm cloth, gently — no more teasing, no more filth, just quiet hands and steady movements.

your eyes are half-closed.

you’re still shaking.

you try to sit up, but simon presses a hand to your chest.

“easy, bunny,” he murmurs. “don’t move yet.”

you let your head fall back.

your skin is sticky with sweat. your thighs ache. your cunt feels swollen and used and wet with more than just your own arousal. and yet—you feel safe. cradled. protected.

you blink up at the ceiling.

your mouth opens, then closes again.

“she’s out of it,” price mutters, crouching beside the bed. he runs two fingers across your forehead, brushing back your hair. “not surprised. took three of us.”

“let’s run her a bath,” simon says. “hot water’ll help.”

“i’ll do it,” könig offers softly, already on his feet.

you hear water running in the other room.

hear towels being unfolded. doors creaking. someone — probably simon — rummaging through drawers.

price’s hand rests on your knee.

he doesn’t say anything.

he just stays there until the water stops.

you don’t remember being carried.

you’re in simon’s arms, then könig’s hands are helping guide you down into the bath. the water’s hot — just how you like it — and your body folds into it with a shuddering sigh.

“there we go,” simon breathes, crouched beside the tub. “that’s it, baby.”

your head lolls against the back of the tub.

price crouches beside you and tilts your chin up.

“you with us, sweetheart?”

you nod. slow. weak.

“…tired,” you mumble.

“no sleep yet,” he mutters, brushing a finger under your eye. “you sleep now and you’ll drown.”

“we’ll help,” könig says, and he lowers himself behind you into the tub, pulling you back gently into his chest. “just lean on me, mein schatz.”

your eyes close. your fingers twitch.

you feel lips at your temple — simon.

you feel someone washing your thighs — price.

you feel könig’s hands stroking your stomach, your arms, whispering soft german that melts into the steam.

you’re warm.

held.

safe.

“you did so good, bunny,” simon murmurs, brushing a sponge over your collarbone. “so proud of you.”

“took us all,” price adds, voice low. “took it like a proper slut.”

könig chuckles.

“a good slut,” he murmurs, kissing your shoulder. “our perfect little pet.”

you hum — a soft, broken little noise — and simon smiles.

“you can sleep soon,” he promises, “but not yet, yeah?”

you try to nod, but your head just rolls toward him.

he strokes your jaw.

price washes between your legs with slow, reverent fingers.

könig holds you steady and hums under his breath.

“we’ll take care of you,” simon whispers. “always.”

and when they dry you off — with warm towels and steady hands — you don’t even notice when you’re carried back to bed.

all three of them climb in with you.

price behind you. simon at your front. könig at your feet, rubbing your calves.

you fall asleep with simon’s hand on your chest, price’s breath against your neck, and könig’s soft voice murmuring, “du gehörst uns.”

and you do.

[rawkonig]

könig chasing you through the woods.

warnings !! — dubcon, hunting- fantasy, established relationship, perverted!könig and reader, slight breeding kink, slight hyperspermia mention, nsfw, 18+

it had started out as a joke, something you’d say whenever he came home with his mask on, looking like a giant demon as he walked through the front doors. you wouldn’t deny the fact that it turned you on whenever he wore it, especially in gear. made your thighs soakin’ wet just looking at him. anxiety coiled in your stomach, exciting you further, the line between arousal and fear blurring when it came to könig.

you always wondered what it would be like on the other side of that battlefield, being chased down by him, under his complete mercy when he finally caught up. you often fantasized about it while he was away, drawing orgasm after orgasm out of you as you pictured yourself pinned down in some bombed out warehouse. body fucked into the dirt as he took whatever he wanted, cock forcing itself past your folds, so tight that he slipped out a few times before sinking inside.

oh you loved it when he used that weight against you. thick thighs always keeping your legs apart no matter how you tried to run, delicate fingers doing absolutely nothing when they pushed at his abdomen. most nights he’d fuck you till your pussy gaped open, clenching around nothing when he was done. would spit on your face whenever he couldn’t cover it in his cum, leaving you like that till the adrenaline left his veins, coming back with soft hands and lovely words. kissed at your cheeks so harshly they chubbed up while you tried to escape the tickle of his stubble, any type of desire to see you crying and begging now subsided.

instead he turned into a little ball of love, unable to detach himself from you. and thats usually how you liked it, usually.

you wanted könig to treat you like nothing sometimes, hold your face in his fist as he fucks you like a personal doll, make you sleep on the floor beside the bed after like a little pet. sometimes you wanted to see that very monster he got to show other people.

“so…” you said slowly, sliding into könig’s lap as he ate dinner. your fingers danced along the hem of his shirt that rested against his neck, scratching your nails slightly in the tanned skin, “i had an idea..”

“and who let you think?” könig teased. kinda. he liked his wife to be pliant, obedient as a waiting dog, preferring it if you thought less about ideas and more about how you were going to serve him. wouldn’t ever let that obsession get too out there, you were too good to him for that. if only he knew how badly you wanted to be grabbed by the neck and forced onto your knees.

you slid further into his lap, resting your legs over his thighs as he adjusted, continuing to eat like nothing was happening. you told him all about your idea, whispering in his ear like someone in your empty house was listening, going into detail about how you wanted him to take you on the ground, unrelenting and rough, maybe even smack you around a little.

your little whispers excited him, cock chubbing up in his pants underneath you. the slightest of movements made him groan, fingers digging into your plush hips, making you giggle. even if könig was the one doing the physical dominating, manhandling you like a puppet, there was no denying the hold you had over him. with just one sway of your hips you had him humping at your ass, bending you over on any surface, regardless of it’s height.

“safe word?” he questioned, chest rumbling with want as he stayed in his seat, hand coming up to his chin to scratch at the stubble.

just outside the backdoor was an endless stretch of land, just a little field until a line of thick trees cut off the backyard. technically, the land was still yours, so there was no risk of trespassing for miles. you shook your head, lips pressing in a tight line as a string of thoughts ran through könig’s mind. he’s never done anything to you without a word to drag him back to the real world. he needed one, always getting too carried away— too rough. it was a little strange, because he wanted to hurt you. wanted to see you bleed a little when he was done, but he didn’t want to completely break you.

part of his anxiety shot up, worried he’s hurt you too much and you’d just leave— deciding he was really too crazy. but you noticed the hesitant look in his eyes, the way his cheek sunk him from biting at it— a nervous habit he had. you cupped his cheek, hand small compared to him, kissing down until you had to tilt your head to kiss his lips, then kissing at his nose— anything to draw him back.

“promise it’ll be alright, just wanna try it once” könig almost squinted at you, fingers thumping against your thigh as he tapped up and down.

it took more coaxing from your end, lots of reassurance, but you got him to agree before the sun fully set. you two got dressed in silence, opting for your fleece leggings and a long shirt— your jacket was downstairs on the hook. by the look of the leaves on the trees, you’d need it. könig picked up his huge duffle bag from the end of the bed, digging through it so he could find all the pieces he needed. it wasn’t a new sight, seeing him getting all set up and comfortable in his gear, but knowing that he was going to be chasing you down set your skin on fire. made you sit on the edge of anticipation, legs ready to run.

he didn’t put the cut up t-shirt over his head until you two got downstairs. you turned around to deep black circles as you were zipping up your jacket, baby blue’s already losing all sight of warmth and love for you.

you were just slipping on your beaten up sneakers when he took out his long, black sniper from the closet. it was the one he kept at home for “just in case” purposes, probably the only gun of his that you knew how to shoot. you were confused for a second, guts flipping until you saw him adjusting the scope.

“just for lookin’, little hase” he placed the gun back down on the marble countertop, satisfied with the range. he pulled one of the knife drawers out, fingers tapping on the side of the wood out of habit again, a big puff of air coming out as he started making his decision. pulled out a large cutting knife, ribbed along the edge with a smooth, curved handle. könig brought down the wooden cutting-board from the wall, slamming the knife down till it stuck. with his hands on his hips he huffed again, wrenching the knife from the wood before placing it next to the gun.

you watched with a close eye, dumb as a deer in headlights as he got his hunting tools ready. könig turned back to you slowly, wall of a body towering over you as he came closer— hand reaching out. you went to flinch away from it, thinking he was already playing with you, but he just outstretched his palm, showing he wasn’t going to do anything. you settled, könig’s hand reached the cold golden doorknob, moving you out of the way with his hand curled against your elbow.

the back door swung open, ever so slightly bouncing against the back wall. the sound made your ears jump.

“you have till you clear that opening, then i’m coming.”

you couldn’t help but laugh, hand coming to cover your mouth when you realized he was serious. quickly it turned scary, especially when you looked out the door, realizing that the opening was much smaller now for some reason. used to feel so big.

you all put scrambled out the door when he let out a fake cough, alerting you to the time ticking. you almost slipped down the stairs, hopping to the ground as your feet skipped the last step. the air was a cool greeting to your flushed cheeks, already grateful you decided to wear fleece and a jacket.

your shoes crunched against the field, leaves littering the dying grass, only the evergreens survived. könig watched you from the still open door, leaning against the frame while his eyes followed you across the open stretch of land. only when you got to the edge of the field, bracing yourself against a tree so you could catch your breath, did you look back— half expecting to see him sprinting after you. instead he had the small kitchen window open, tip of the gun pointing out, only his hunched frame visible behind the gun. for some reason, that was even scarier than him coming at you directly.

you knew he was watching every move, every breath and bat of your eyelashes, it made you purse your lips out in a pout before you ran into the woods— letting the trees cover you.

once a far enough distance from könig, you let your back fall against a tree, catching your breath again with a heaving chest. you weren’t really a runner. always got a sharp pain in your stomach when you ran for too long, killed the mood, honestly, when you felt it in your ribs. you didn’t think you stopped for long before you heard whistling, echoing very clearly in the empty air.

the whistling was the unnerving part. you stayed behind your tree for a little longer, trying to make out where he was. but you just weren’t that good, and for all you knew it— könig probably already knew where you were. it took a lot of build up courage for you to get out from behind that tree, sprinting into an open direction— looking back only for a moment.

and there he was, hammer in hand, looking just as surprised as you were.

it made a frightened scream rip through your throat when he stopped, and then started running directly at you. a shaky laugh followed, too far in front of him for anything to be too scary yet, instead it was quite fun. he feet were light on the ground despite the weight of his massive body, moving far too fluidly for a man of such size.

that’s when it started to get scary.

könig picked up speed, hammer dropping in his hand to hold it lower at the handle, almost wanting to abandon it completely in favor of grabbing you with two hands— but this was how you wanted it. another short scream slipped past your lips when könig cornered you to a tree, making you hide behind it like it would do something, playing keep-away with your body every time he came close. he gave you a good chase around the squeeze before grabbing you with his free hand, really making you scream until he covered your mouth his a gloved hand. kicked the back of your knees in to make sure you fell with him, letting you roll onto your back in struggle.

his hammer slammed into the dirt above your head, freeing his hand of the object so that he could hold both your wrists, pushing them up and pinning them into the ground. you fought him every inch of the way, getting a few good kicks into him before he angrily slapped you, grabbing your chin between his calloused fingers afterwards,

“your only warning, don’t make me hit this pretty face again” he pointed a strict finger at you, but you knew how easily he was annoyed— couldn’t imagine getting kicked wasn’t any better. you tested his limits, kicking close to his crotch so he’d get set off. he replied by messily flipping your lower half over, twisting you so that you had to roll over, catching yourself on your elbows while könig winded his hand back. gloved fingers cracked over your clothed ass like a whip, feeling like he hit bare skin.

it drew a sharp hiss from you, almost tears, but he didn’t break you just yet. you knew it would annoy the fuck out of him if you acted all bratty.

“where’s the kitchen knife?” you barked at him, looking at könig from over your shoulder with heavy lidded eyes— truly just there to taunt him. and he knew the game you were playing.

“wasn’t fit for the job” his large hand practically covered yours, shoving your face into the dirt to shut you up. he kept his palm heavily pressed to your cheek as he ripped off the t-shirt, unable to breathe.

you wondered if every victim got to see his face before they died. somehow, it made you jealous.

he balled up the old black rag, fingers shoving in your mouth to create room for it, only shoving it in your waiting mouth after you choked around his knuckles. the taste was horrible. a mix of years worth of sweat, dust and war really took its toll. it made you gag around the fabric, you’d rather take his bitter cum than this.

“dummes mädchen, wearing all these clothes for no reason” könig pushed your shirt up your back, hands smoothing down the dips in your spine, just rubbing at the soft skin. a hand dipped into his belt to pull out a switchblade, a small one he always kept in his pocket. another “just-in-case” item.

instead of ripping the pants down your leg, he cut at the seam on your pussy, gutting you like a pig till a hole formed in the thick material. you mourned them slightly, good fleece leggings were hard to find. könig would buy you new ones, always did when he ruined a pair of your pretty panties.

these ones cut easily, the lace was no match for the sharpened blade. he cut the little bow off the front, putting it in his pocket like a little trophy. this thick fingers rubbed at your clit with no real rhythm, just wanted to watch your pussy spread around, already leaking from the chase.

he didn’t speak much as he worked, didn’t need to. his brooding silence and rough hands jolting your body around was enough. you wanted to say something, but couldn’t think of anything witty enough.

“gut mädchen, bleiben ruhig” your brain melted at the german, pooling out of your ears and making you soft. exactly how könig liked you. loved being able to move you around as he pleased, bending you to his will, his hand itching to smack at your skin again. he raised his hand again, coming down onto your thick muscle with another rough slap, unsatisfied with the way it felt over clothes.

he ripped your leggings further, tearing at the back so that your ass hung out, hand coming back down on your poor, already red skin at least three times before you finally gave him a good cry. it was a loud yelp, hand coming out to try and stop könig, reaching for his wrist. he slapped your hand away like it was filthy.

the next sound you heard was the unbuckling of his belt, the metal sound making your ears pick up, anticipation once again prickling at your skin. the stretch was always painful, no matter how much könig prepped you, or how many times he plowed into your pussy. always went back to being tight like a virgin. waiting for him to slide into you was always the worst part.

his thumb stroked between your folds, popping in only the tip of his thumb, which was still enough to get a little gasp out of you. he swirled it against your fluttering hole, pressing down on the ring of muscle to make you whine again. your hips tried to to run away, a pathetic little army crawl to try and escape his torture, but he only made a clicking sound with his tongue, pulling you back against him till you were back up on your knees.

the lack of warmth at your pussy was replaced with the tough fabric of könig’s pants, grinding against your wet cunt with curt hip thrusts, making you bounce back against him. usually he’d have you undress him, liked seeing you pull down his zipper with your teeth, hands holding his large cock in your small hands as you got the hem of his jeans over. instead he had to go through the annoyance of his own fat fingers fumbling at the seemingly tiny zipper, not caring to pull them all the way down as his fingers tugged down the hem of his boxers.

his cock spilled out, tip all red from being hard for so long. he let it slap against your ass, watching as your ass bounced with even the slightest movement. he slipped it between legs, letting the wetness mix with his precum as he rubbed his cock between your folds— tip hitting your clit. you were supposed to be playing a bit, but it was hard to act like you didn’t want it when könig was just so good. didn’t even realize how good he was.

he gave himself a good thigh fuck, thighs slamming into the back of yours, pulling back so far that his cock got caught on your hole, threatening to push inside. even the tip was a stretch, making you press your lips into a thin line. könig always talked you though it, no matter how rough he was being, and when he started to slap his cock on your tight hole, sinking into you without a word? oh that sent a little shot to your heart.

such a spoiled brat, couldn’t even take not being called a good girl while he stretched you out over him.

he groaned in your ear as he bottomed out, hips flush against your ass. könig didn’t wait for you to adjust to his size, didn’t dip his head down to kiss at your chubby cheeks, definitely didn’t talk to you— just started slamming his hips into you like a whore. took you from behind like you meant nothing, just a cute little thing for him to beat up and fuck. couldn’t help the way both his hands came to wrap around your neck, fingers touching, using your body to pull himself in and out at a relentless pace.

your back arched in an uncomfortable way so that you didn’t choke, one arm steading yourself against his thrusts as the other came to claw at his hands. it was difficult to breathe, from his hand and from his cock, feeling like it was borrowing itself deep in your stomach, rearranging your guts in some way. making a home for itself, just like always.

könig filled you to the absolute brim when he came, keeping your hips angled up so he could watch your pussy gape, his cum all pooled up inside of you. pressed your tits deeper into the dirt, arching your back, hoping that his spent would take and make you nice and round with his kids. always had a fantasy of holding you down, forcing you to get pregnant so you’d never leave.

which, he shouldn’t have those doubts, not when you looked up at him with such a fucked out look, lashes all wet from tears, a wobbly smile forming on your face as you wiggled your hips. his cum drooled out, covering your pussy and creating a puddle underneath you.

“such a wasteful girl” könig said breathlessly, sitting back on his heels as he took a glance at his work. would have liked to be meaner, but he got distracted with how good you clung around him, absolutely lost in your pussy.

“drag me home for round two?”

and könig would never say no to that.

HII EVERYONE!! sorry ive been feeling unmotivated recently, wrote this to try and get out of my rut. im looking for more writing moots so !! i need more people to yap to. anyways i hope u enjoyed this, idk how it got so long

!! navigation !! !! blurb masterlist !! !! fanfic masterlist !!

[tojisun]

thinking about a messy divorce that ends up in a bathroom stall sex at the court registry after the papers are signed and john keeps your underwear as a last token because you already got almost everything except for his cabin. you have to walk back to your car with a noticeable stain on the crotch of your pants with john’s cum still dripping from your hole, and john’s ride, simon, sees you and lets out a long whistle because damn, captain’s ex is a fucking catch.

john sees simon’s reaction, sighs, and basically tells him sure and to go ahead since you’re already single, anyway. but it’s like—hello? you didn’t give permission for simon to court you? but, apparently, that doesn’t matter, not when it’s john’s assent that simon looks for. next thing you know, you’ve got a big problem knocking on your door with a big heart and a big fucking cock reaching depths that john had never reached with his before. and it’s not like john wasn’t… blessed. it’s just that simon’s drowning in those blessings.

simon flips you to your front to make you sit on your thighs while he drills you from the back, before wrapping his big hand around the back of your neck, holding you in place. he’s using his weight to press you down, makes it easier to stuff you, and he doesn’t even budge when your blunt nails scratch at his thighs in your desperation to find a tether because you feel too full and you’re so overstimulated, already, and everything is just too intense and god, you want this cock so much, damn it.

the next day, simon proudly shows off his scratches to the squad. he tugs his sweats off, leaves himself in his jock, and points at the red welts. says, “cap’s last bird left these.”

the boys ooh and ahh, and when john walks by, he gives a quick squeeze to simon’s cheek and praises him for how good he’s doing at keeping you entertained. simon puffs up in pride even more at that.

[motelbabyydoll]

Can you write older knight Ghost x princess’ lady in waiting/ one of the maids for the princess

If they could be fat and brown (like a light skin black girl!) 🥰

Knight!Ghost x princess' maid!Reader ꩜.ᐟ

cw: age gap, established relationship, fluff a/n: I don't write readers with a specific look, but I used black women for the header photos because of your request, hope that is not an issue!! I just don't like specifying since it's an x reader and readers come in all shapes and sizes. WITH THAT BEING SAID!! ENJOY MY LOVEEE

You hummed softly as you arranged fresh flowers in the princess’s chambers, your dress fluttering just above your ankles, hair pinned up with delicate ribbons. Every movement was graceful, almost purposeful, a delicate awareness in every little thing you did, as if you knew Simon was watching.

You two were quite the pair, everyone in the castle grounds knew you were together, although it was technically a secret. Simon had made a vow, he was not allowed to marry, not allowed to fall in love, his devotion had to be to his country and to God, not to the pretty thing currently organizing the princess' bed chambers. He watched you with a slight frown, concentrated. You were young, full of life and warmth, and utterly radiant in a way that made him ache quietly, you were so different to him. The years etched into his face, scars littering his body, the streaks of silver at his temples; he was nor sweet nor lively, he carried himself with a calculated and off-putting demeanor. Most would fear him, or at least regard him with slight distaste, but not you, never you.

He stepped forward, letting the quiet click of his boots announce his presence. “Ah, there you are,” he said, voice low but amused. “I wondered if the princess’s most charming lady-in-waiting had gotten herself lost in the gardens again.”

"Simon." Although your back was turned to him he knew you were smiling, he could tell from the soft lilt of your voice, from how you almost sighed in relief when you said his name. It was a shame you were not looking at him right now, wide eyed and giggly, it was a shame you could not see he shared that same look of devotion.

You always called him Simon, never Ghost or Knight, never regarded him with distaste or fear. You thought so highly of him, spoke so softly to him he feared ever breaking your heart. Where others saw a monster you saw a man, where others saw a ghost, a shell of the person he once was, you just saw him.

You turned then, slowly, a bundle of lilacs still in your hands. The light from the window caught the warm glow of your skin, the sheen of your ribbons, the curve of your smile. Simon’s breath faltered. You looked like an angel, a creature he should have had no right to touch, and yet you belonged to him.

“Do you mean to linger in the doorway all day?” you teased, turning around. Your eyes found his. “Or will you come closer?”

He hesitated for only a moment before stepping forward, boots sinking into the woven rug at your feet. When he stopped beside you, you offered him one of the lilacs, its petals a soft shade of mauve, purple like a fresh bruise, soft as velvet. He accepted it clumsily, his scarred fingers too rough for such a delicate thing.

“Lilacs suit you,” you said, still smiling.

He huffed a laugh through his nose. “Nonsense.”

“I mean it.” You reached up to adjust the fall of his cloak, a small, thoughtless gesture that made his chest ache. “Besides, you suit whatever I place in your hands, and if I say flowers look good on you then you are to wear them on the lapels of your jackets and pinned to the front of your shirt.”

Simon smirked, staring down at you, at the way your tan skin glowed in the golden light, at the way your dress fluttered softly around your ankles. He wondered if you knew the power you held over him, if you knew that you could bring him to his knees with only a word, a glance, the gentle press of your fingers on his chest.

“I shouldn’t be here,” he murmured, low enough it was almost a growl.

“You always say that,” you whispered back, eyes never leaving his. “And yet… here you are.”

He said nothing, only set the flower down on the table and caught your hand in his, thumb brushing over your knuckles with surprising gentleness. His vows weighed heavily on him, chains of faith and duty, but the warmth of you against him felt holier than any prayer.

He leaned down, pressing his forehead to yours, and allowed himself this one sin — the sin of loving you openly in a room that smelled of roses and rosemary, the sin of believing he could ever deserve you.

────୨ৎ────

taglist: @sagehitomi123 @cherrycolaheartss @laceyfaeryy

[miss-vanta-likes-to-write]

Age gap fic with John Price but his wife is mid fifties pushing 60 and he's the controversial dumb boy toy. Post.

[miss-vanta-likes-to-write]

Bonus points if she's the more successful of the two and she keeps him like a little trophy.

She's calls his missions and work "enrichment" to help get the "masculinity" out of him so when he comes home he has no issue putting on thigh highs and a pink apron and nothing else.

[miss-vanta-likes-to-write]

I know women in their 60s who like like they just hit late 40's.

Like imagine John Price being this woman's sub? He's a smart guy but his wife is The Woman of the Hour wherever she goes. Top expert in her field, and she brings him along to fancy parties to show him off.

He actually kinda likes it. Kinda likes being the fittest man in the room, other women gwak at him openly, and compliment him on how handsome he is, and oh he's in the service? He's so selfless, he is so strong, it really strokes his ego to be seen with his wife.

And whole time he has a cock cage on and the lock and key is in her bag that he carries for her.

[theorist-fox]

[ilium-ilia]

sour fingers - preview

simon "ghost" riley x fem!reader | western!au | oneshot | a light AU to daughters with soft underbellies

After countless years of traveling, Simon Riley wanders into a small-town saloon owned by an old man who's quick to anger. His poor daughter seems to take the brunt of his berating for simple mistakes. As a favor to himself, Simon decides to buy the girl off of him as a wife.

cw: old west alternate universe, wayward outlaw! ghost, smut, dub-con, alcohol and intoxication, improper (or maybe too proper) use of spurs, blood and injury, historically typical views of women and purity, simon is a jerk but hey at least he's better than your dad

An old, fat dog lounges in the corner of the saloon with his eyes closed and belly facing up towards the smoke stained ceiling. 

Simon’s been watching him for the last hour while he sips on his whiskey and chews on the butt of his cigarette, filter dissolving on the tip of his tongue. It’s as if he’s looking in a mirror. A washed up mutt with hardened skin finally reclining after too many years of work. Tapping his finger on the table, he keeps count of each respiration and breathes in time with the creature. He twitches in his sleep—tail wagging, cheeks puffing up with emphatic growls that hardly roll past his canines. 

There’s nothing else of value to watch in the saloon besides the mangy creature. The poker game taking place three tables down is smothered with ancient men sporting white hair and liver spots who hardly let anything out of their lips except wet coughs, and the bartender has been muttering curses to himself for half the evening that Simon doubts he would make good conversation. Besides, he's a wayward man. Constantly on the move, traveling from place to place, refusing to linger for too long lest trouble finds him.

For now, he’s perfectly content on leaning back in his chair and enjoying his solitude—

—until you stumble in. 

Pale pink fingerprints stain the cotton of your apron that you either didn’t bother to remove or forgot to hang up in the kitchen before bursting into the saloon with wild eyes and a heaving chest. As he takes a drag of his cigarette, Simon half expects some inebriated bastard to stagger in after you, caught in a drunken stupor trying to chase after some girl who he doesn't have even half the skill to catch in his maw. You are a sight for sore eyes. Certainly better than the half dead mutt keeping him company. Clad in a sky blue dress that seems all too common for women settling in the west and a gaze that can’t help but be magnetically attracted to the floor as you walk to the bar on lubberly legs, he nearly chuckles when you hold your hands behind your back. 

“You’re late,” the barkeep berates. 

“Sorry Daddy, I was finishing up chores, and the geese were pitching a fit again—” You’re tripping over your words worse than you do your feet. They spew between your teeth like water from a well pump that has too much pressure behind it. 

“I don’t give a damn what held you up, girl. I tell you to be here no later than seven, and I expect that you listen to that,” the man—your father—snaps. Your apology comes so quiet that Simon can’t make out what you say, but he can tell by the curling of your shoulders that it exists. All you get in response is raised brows and a clenching jaw. “Well? Go on. I didn’t ask you to be here just to stand around.”

You slink away from the bar without another word before your gaze is cast out at the swathes of unoccupied tables around you. Simon flicks the ash from his cigarette onto the floor as he studies the way you mentally drink up the tasks laid out for you before you're springing to work. One by one you ignite the oil lamps that hang from the ceiling with precariously rusty chains. A curse hisses between your pursed lips when you burn your fingers on one of the matches, and you shove the raw pad against your tongue to numb the pain.

Simon doesn't bother to hide the way he watches you. His gaze is heavy beneath the brim of his hat, darker than the coal mines that line this pathetic excuse for a town and ten times more suffocating. You make the mistake of not carrying a canary with you as you approach his table—there is no sudden silence of a bird's song to warn you of the danger you're in—a meek smile graces your face as you light another match and reach up to ignite his lamp.

"Good evening, sir," you greet.

His fingers freeze against the table. Simon's lost his interest in keeping count of an old dog's breathing. "Evenin."

Your scent washes over him just as the oil begins to burn. Sweet like fresh strawberries, yet smothered by crude, unadulterated earth. Wet soil, the muck of animals. Simon studies the curve of your face as the flames illuminate your skin. Delectable flesh, pliable and soft—softer than him—yet the blemish on the apple of your cheek screams at him.

"Look at me, sweetheart." The pet name is kind, but his voice isn't. Jumping, the match burns down to your fingers again forcing you to yelp, but even through the pain you listen to him.

He's traded one dog for another.

When you question if something is wrong, Simon gives you no answer except for the beckoning of his fingers. Complying, you lean forward as he snatches your jaw in one hand and sticks his thumb into his mouth before smearing his spit across your cheek. It's wet like a kiss, and your skin drinks up his touch like starved earth yearning for any bit of rain the skies will bless it with. The dried mud flakes off with ease, and he wipes the remainder off on his stained jeans.

"O-Oh." When he relinquishes you, your hand flies up to your face where you begin to rub at your skin as if you can feel the mark he's left on you. "Thank you, sir."

Simon only hums in response before tapping the side of his glass. It rings like church bells on a bleak Sunday. "I'm dry."

Gruff. Short. Seemingly having no time for pleasantries. You awkwardly snatch his glass up before bringing it to your father where he berates you for not asking what was in it before you took it away. Luckily the saloon isn't too busy, and when you return his drink back to him Simon's happy to find that it's exactly what he ordered even though half of it is beaded on the outside of the cup from your blatant mishandling.

His night has become much more interesting now that he can watch you through the haze of his whiskey. Bent over on your hands and knees, sweat beading on your brow, you scrub the floor in the unoccupied areas of the saloon with a bristle brush. The view is nice. The curve of your ass presses through your dress like rising sourdough while you work, and when you're facing him your bodice cuts so low your cleavage glistens in the marmalade lighting.

John Price has always told him views like this were worth the money. His business partner has always been fond of the little thing he keeps locked up at home fat with his kids and sticky with the food he buys. Always got a fresh meal on the table for dinner and a sweet cunt to sink into for dessert. It's not half bad, Riley.

thanks for reading! full oneshot is up for early access for those of you who are interested in reading more! otherwise, it will be posted here on tumblr and ao3 in a few weeks <3

[ichordrunk-deactivated20250813]

would never see simon as a religious man, could see him in religious guilt in his mama's memory. god, i'm a sinner but imagining simon as a priest. religious imagery and widow reader with priest (father) simon riley.

simon riley who is the priest at the town's only church. he's the father, called holy by many. everyone believing that he's a good man; the man of god. he's everything but holy, with this putrid sense of morality in his head, enough blood for everyone's sins under his skin and bleeding into his mouth.

and then there is you, a widow. your husband dead in an accident, his body never found. you live a few steps away from the church, simon watches you dry clothes everyday from the courtyard of the church. he has thoughts, morbid in it's sense. a thirst bleeding into his veins; a taste of you.

you don't tell him how you saw him dragging your husband's body across the river. don't tell him how you found it odd that the ring that your husband wore now adorns father riley's fingers. you have seen him and his hungry eyes staring at you long enough to not acknowledge; and now it has become a problem.

a problem because he's at your house having tea, frowning as you mutter you issues. he can fix that, can take a bird with broken wings under him, can help you.

bird, just let me.

and he has got you underneath him, eyes rolling back your skirt bunches to your hips as his hands drags itself between your folds and hole, fingers soaked with your essence, his hands curving against your nape as he grunts how good he's gonna take care of you. it's filthy as he mouths your neck, bites, lustful: he's the son of god; he's the spawn of satan.

you arching around him, cooing so softly, It feel wrong father— , but whatever feels wrong is right. he has you in his arms, stupidly trusting a man who falsely claims that he's the man of god. he's worse, he's the experimental test subject of god, he's wrong.

there is no sweeter innocence than our gentle sin.

[bonesofall]

cw. porn with no plot.

yes, the idea of reader getting used as a fleshlight is fantastic, but what about reader using him as a dildo? not worried about his pleasure. you're only fucking him because he's a loser with a huge cock.

you're stuffing your panties (lacy, soaked through, reeking of your perfect pussy) into his face in a failed attempt to stifle his loud, unabashed moans. he definitely hasn't been fucked before, if so, not like this. due to his inexperience, he's probably came way too many times already inside you, and so you're bouncing on his fat, slimy cock with cum sloshing inside you and leaking with every bounce onto his pelvis.

"oh fuck- shut up, will you? i'm t-trying... mmnh... to focus," you manage out. trying to sound stern is basically an impossibility when you've got his cock smushed inside you to the hilt.

his hands are fisted in the sheets, knuckles white, thighs trembling beneath you as you sink down on him and then rock your hips back and forth while completely stuffed. this method doesn't give him as much pleasure as it does for you, but you don't care. this isn't for his pleasure, or your connection. all you care about is how deep he hits when you sink all the way, how your cunt's clenching so tight he can't stop shaking.

"f-fuck-!" he whines again pathetically through the lace in his mouth, drool soaking the crotch of your panties where they're pressed over his mouth and nose. his eyes are wide, glassy, fixed on the place where you meet him. it's humiliating how desperate he looks.

"you like getting used, huh?" you pant, beginning to bounce again so the overstimulation hits once more. you let his big, drooling cock drag and catch with each rough bounce. it makes that slick, wet sound every time you move.

"ah- ye-yeah, like it soooo much," he moans so loud it vibrates through your soaked panties, tries to say something, but you shove your panties harder into his face so you don't hear what shit he has to say. his cock pulses again and you can feel more warmth spill out of you, overflowing from the tip, dripping down to his balls in glooping heaps. "such a -shit- big fucking cock wasted on a nobody like ngh! you. y-you don't deserve it."

your voice cracks halfway through but you don't stop or pretend this is anything but using him like he's just a toy that happens to twitch and moan and cum without your permission. your hands are braced on his chest for balance, his skin hot and slick under your palms from how hard he's sweating, poor thing.

you push the underwear just enough to see his eyes, which are teary and rolled back. his eyes clamp shut when you drop down especially hard, and his whole body jerks like he's seizing. his stomach tightens under your hands but the second you grind down again deep, slow and mean, he lets out a strangled sob into your panties, soaked through with spit and the sharp scent of your cunt.

"mmnh, fuck, look at you," you breathe out, "you're crying, sweetheart. is it too much?" you coo mockingly, dragging your hips up until just his swollen tip is nestled at the edge of your cunt, nearly pulling out. the area where his cockhead enters you is smeared in cum and slick. he scrabbles at your arms, needing to be back inside you. then, without warning, you slam back down, clamping hard on him.

he screams behind the fabric. legs kicking. you begin grinding down hard as punishment until you feel another twitch inside you, his cock thickening, spurting another weak, creamy load. his fifth? sixth? doesn't matter.

[machveil]

[laceyfaeryy]

FORGET ME NOTS

butcher! simon riley x florist! reader

౨ৎ⠀ׄ⠀. ━ retired! simon riley who is a butcher in a small town suddenly finds himself infatuated with the florist across the road who gave him flowers on national flower day.

note: context warnings apply to all parts, ones in bold apply to the current part - it will be updated consistently

cw: fem! reader . stalking . dom! simon riley x sub! reader . masturbation .

i. part 1 ii. part 2 iii. part 3

⊹₊ ⋆ after retirement simon found tranquility tucked away in the shabby butcher shop located in the corner of the street. the sound of a loud thwack filled the room as he hacked through the bones of the meat, his apron splattered with blood.

solitude suited him the most, being in the military meant that he had little to no tolerance for incompetency, his co-workers too scared to even speak to him. his looming figure of 6’5 and 250 lbs, arms inked with intricate design and scars, with his black skull balaclava didn’t make him any more approachable.

though his experience in the military was visible from the way he precisely made each cut, his rough calloused hands manoeuvring the knife with both experience and skilled precision. his muscles would flex ever so slightly with each move, his knife skills were deadly.

he wasn’t the best with customer service, his bluntness and impatience would’ve scared all his customers away if he wasn’t the only butcher who provided high quality meats.

“wot yer want now?”

his eyes sharp as he towered over the wimpy boy who stood on the other side of the counter, his knuckles gripping the edge as the boy stuttered out a response.

“j-just that one.” the boy pointed to the loin, simon letting out a low huff before grabbing it.

within seconds the boy dumped cash on the counter without waiting for change, almost tripping over his own legs as he walked away.

“fuckin’ hell,” simon grumbled, shaking his head in annoyance.

if there was one thing he got from spending his time at the military, it was efficiency. it seemed quite clear that none of his customers had it.

incompetent fools.

simon was strict with following routines, open shop at 9 and close at 7. never a minute early, or a minute late. that was until today.

the red sign on the door clearly displaying the word ‘close’ did not stop the knocking on the door. at first he didn’t even bother on looking, his gaze fixed towards washing the knives and wiping down the counter, until he heard a sweet voice.

“please let me in sir!”

he stopped mid way through wiping the counter, his gaze drifting up to the glass door to see a pretty little thing outside with a small frown. oh, and holding a giant bouquet of flowers in your hands with another stuffed inside your tote.

you just seemed so different.

you gave him a genuine smile, where he could see the sparkle in your eyes, a small bounce on your feet as you waved to him enthusiastically. “i’ll be quick i promise,” your voice slightly muffled due to the door, but he swore it was the most melodic voice he’s ever heard.

without even thinking his legs brought him to the front door, unlocking it without a second thought. he stood there like an idiot, watching you walk in with the same smile. it was like flowers blossomed wherever you walked, birds singing as they followed you and a ray of sunshine focused on you.

the moment he got a whiff of your sickly sweet perfume he was gone. his mind went hazy, turning into a mindless man instead of an ex military retiree from years of training.

“uh, wot can i get yer birdie?”

the sudden term slipped out of his mouth without hesitation, it was fitting though. a small beaming girl who had the voice of a song bird.

“nothing, i just wanted to give you this!” the bouquet of flowers in your hands now shoved against his large chest, the sudden movement making him blush slightly, grateful that you couldn’t see it. “ it’s national flower day, so i’d thought i’d spread the love running a flower shop and all.”

oh so his birdie was a florist.

the juxtaposition between his imposing figure in all black, in an apron covered in blood whilst wearing a skull balaclava and the delicate colourful arrangement could not be any more striking.

“even a rough man like you deserves some flowers,” your voice soft as you smiled at him. he clenched his fists to hide the sudden urge to run his calloused thumb over your soft plush lips.

“what are these ones?” his grey eyes examining the flowers, tracing each delicate and intricate detail. never in his life had he paid attention to flowers, the only thing he knew about was bloodshed and loss from the military, he didn’t feel deserving of something so… delicate. he was man of death, killing hundreds during his missions and yet he was holding an arrangement of blue delicate flowers that blossomed.

“forget me nots.”

“it’s a sign of true love,” you motioned to the flowers, “and a bunch of other things, but i’m a hopeless romantic so i’d like to focus on that.”

of course you were.

everything about you represented love, that beaming smile and how you just seemed to glow despite the disgustingly horrid white lights that made the store look like a hospital. simon on the other hand was convinced the flowers were going to wilt within seconds simply because he was holding them.

“wait here,” his voice low as he walked to the back of the counter, grabbing something wrapped up in kraft paper, it looking comically small in simon’s hands and yet huge when he placed it on your palms.

“an exchange,” without even knowing he fidgeted with his fingers, as if he was a nervous teenage boy rather than a man who was built like a guard dog.

you gently ran your thumb over the paper, a soft blush forming on your cheeks that made simon want to pinch them. god, you were adorable.

“jus’ cook it properly, season it thoroughly and then sear it on a pan or grill if yer into that.” he spoke when he saw the uncertainty in your face. “it’s cold tonight, so it’ll keep yer warm.”

he watched as you thanked him, almost getting into a fight because you insisted on paying. cute and stubborn.

he didn’t leave the windows until he saw your figure fully disappear into the night.

suddenly, the room didn’t feel so cold and smelt oddly sweet.

tag list: @happysmappy @mydickishuge560 @dolli333 @madebyyicarus @l-otti @butlerslut @vampwifee @i-wanabe-yours @bluebarrybubblez @cinnamongrl2006 @akkahelenaa @yanfeiiiiii @actualpoppy @lilyalone @other-fandoms-reblogs @goonette6969 @doubledizzy22 @lucienofthelakes @arabellatreaty

[gloomwitchwrites]

calling them daddy for the first time 😩

Oh, anon. You probably thought I'd go the naughty route with this (and if you believed that: you're totally right I would have.) However, if I'm being honest, I cannot imagine them being anything but startled. Went the humorous, fluff route with this.

For the masterlist and how to submit your own request, click HERE

Task Force 141 x Female Reader

Content & Warnings (mdni): shenanigans, suggestive themes, established relationship, humor

Word Count: 400

ao3 // main masterlist // imagines & what if masterlist

Kyle "Gaz" Garrick

It’s a family gathering.

The night is calm but humid. It’s an evening for music, food, and mischief.

Sitting to your right is your husband, Kyle. Across from you is your father. Kyle is on his phone, typing out a text message. Your father is six beers in and nearly falling asleep.

It’s the perfect opportunity to be a little naughty.

“Hey, daddy.”

They both come to attention. Both turn in your direction. Both make the realization at the same time.

Your father clears his throat.

And Kyle?

Kyle stares at you. How could you betray me, it says.

Oops.

John Price

John examines a jar of pesto in the grocery aisle.

You peer at the label. “What about this one, daddy?” You point to a random one.

John glances up, his expression stone-cold and neutral. “No,” he whispers, holding up his hand. “Don’t. Not here.”

An elderly couple walk by. Fucking perfect.

“What, daddy?” you ask, louder than before.

They couple turn towards you and John.

“We’re leaving,” he hisses, putting the jar back on the shelf.

“John,” you tut, like he’s being silly and you’re not purposefully poking his buttons.

“Now, love. Or I will put you in the cart.”

John "Soap" MacTavish

“Daddy?” You shake the jar of pasta sauce. “Can you open this for me?”

Johnny slowly turns; an eyebrow arched with a hint of a question. He points at himself, as if you could be talking about anyone else.

“Johnny. There is no one else in this kitchen but the two of us,” you reply, deadpan.

He hops off the bar stool, walking toward you. “Oh, aye.” He grabs the jar, winking. He twists off the lid. “Just checking my hearing.”

“Were you?”

Johnny’s smile is devilish. “Wanna call me that one more time, lassie?” He leans in. Shrugs. “Maybe…upstairs?”

Simon "Ghost" Riley

“It needs fixed,” says Simon, aggressively poking the yellow paper on the kitchen counter.

You nod like you know things about filtration systems or how the air conditioning functions. Simon is speaking, and you’re simply listening.

Big, strong man with veiny arms speaks many words, is all your brain can process.

“And the handyman you called to come out here is taking the fucking piss with these prices.,” he growls, agitated.

You love it when he’s angry.

“Whatever you say, daddy,” you sigh.

Simon comes to a halt. “What?”

Shit.

“Whatever you want,” you mutter.

“No. No. The other thing.”

[lambiconic]

you (pt1)

murderess housewife reader x cleaner gaz (and 141) an: trying something new :) i really like this one but its super long i'm working on so i'm dropping this to test interest. (not edited.. be kind)

// mentions of murder, disposal of corpse + not too explicit description of said corpse, brief mentions of sexual harassment

︶︶︶ ⊹ ︶︶ ୨♡୧ ︶︶︶ ⊹ ︶︶

You didn’t mean to. Or at least that’s what you keep telling yourself. 

Repeating it like a prayer, over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over. 

You *didn’t* mean to. 

Staring at the blood on your hands you let out quivering breath after quivering breath, the air burning your throat as your chest heaved. It was a sickening sight, the man on the floor leaking out blood. The way his eyes glazed and popped from his skull, you could see the color draining out of him. His entire form dulling like the switch back to black and white in The Wizard of Oz.

How long had you been sitting there? Hours. Maybe. Definitely. Had to be…you could hear your husband’s hard footsteps entering the home, Kyle came home at 5 on the dot. The familiar sound of him hanging up his keys and tugging off his boots snapping you out of your trance. You’d had hours to do something. At least three. And here you were gawking. 

You let out a strangled sob as you quickly crawled away from the body, your hand coming up to muffle the noise. You can taste the blood on your palm as your mind races. What do you do? You’re covered in this man’s blood, it's sinking into your apron. Staining the leather of your heels. The ones you’d begged him to buy you, expensive. And now they were ruined. 

“Baby doll? You asleep?”

You could hear his voice from your position on the floor, your back pressed against the wall. That playful tone, the one he used when he was about to rouse you from a nap. The fake whisper. You could hear the grin in his voice, the leather of his jacket as he lowered himself into that pouncing position he’d sneak up on you in. “Love?”

You drop your hand to rest in your lap as you hear him slip into the dining room to look into the kitchen. A sob escaping your lips as your eyes meet his. “Kyle..”

You don’t know what you expected. Him to yell? Call you crazy? Leave? You didn’t, however, expect him to drop to his knees and take his hands into yours. “Baby..? Are you alright?” He’d taken your bloody hands and pressed kisses to them, his thumbs rubbing your wrist as he cooed soft reassurances to you. Asking you over and over if you were hurt. 

If *you* were hurt?

“The.. the..” You tried to raise a shaking hand to point over his shoulder, your voice raw and quiet but he just clung to you. “Don’t worry about that. I’ll take care of that. Are. You. Okay?”

He didn’t move until you nodded, a tear slipping down your face as he cupped your face. “You did what you had to.”

He whispered those words with so much conviction, his eyes burning as he gently helped you to your feet. “Go take a bath, clean up.”

You’d soaked for what felt like hours, sitting in the murky brown water. You’d tried to refresh the water but what was the point? Everytime you thought you’d gotten everything off you found blood caked up somewhere else. You could hear the hushed voices from the living room, a few men muttering. The sound of bags zipping open, doors opening and slamming shut.

After you’d finally pulled yourself from the bath you wrapped yourself in a robe, padding into the living room. You resisted the urge to gag as you watched two men gently placing the dead man into a large square of pleather. 

Kyle instantly rushed to your side, taking you up in his arms. “Honey.. You know the boys, yeah?”

You didn’t have the stomach for pleasantries, to offer a glass of lemonade like the perfect little housewife you are. You just nodded.

You've made dinners for these men more than once; Johnny, John, and Simon. They were like family. Of course Kyle would call them to handle your mess. 

“Simon is going to take you to the bedroom to talk,” Kyle says gently, wiping your face. “Ask you a few questions… you’re okay.”

You wrap your arms tightly around yourself as Kyle gently passes you to Simon, a silent conversation passing between the two before he leads you back towards the bedroom. 

And, of course, Simon doesn’t waste any time, “What happened?”

“Stabbed him,” You fight back a loud sob as the words leave your mouth, like speaking them made this any more real than it already was.

“No tears, we ‘aven’t got time for tears.” Simon grunted out, holding your face firmly. “I know you stabbed him… stabbed him quite a bit. Need to know what led to that.”

“He came into the house–”

“Why was he in the house?” Simon interrupted.

“The.. he was checking for termites.” You whisper out. “The annual check up. He came in and when… when he was checking the kitchen he tried to touch me.”

“To touch you,” Simon repeated, nodding. You could see his jaw clench as he ran his thumbs over your cheeks. “Where’d you get the knife?”

“Knife block.”

“That lil Paris Hilton number you’re so proud of?” He asks. “The pink ones?”

“Yes..” 

“Where is the knife now?” He asks, carefully.

“In… in the trash.” 

You could see the wheels turning in his head as he pulled away from you, “Stay here.”

“Okay.”

[softaestluv]

I don’t want to make my account political, but I’ve gotten to a position where I can’t sit anymore and I want to make sure people understand where I stand.

Fuck Donald Trump. Fuck Elon musk. Fuck ICE.

Free Palestine.

Fuck alligator Alcatraz. Fuck all the representatives who said they were against the big beautiful bill and then still voted yes on it.

Fuck racists. Fuck misogynist. Fuck homophobes.

If you support any of this please don’t follow my page or interact with me.

[sentientcave]

Thinking about "came back wrong" Price, but he's come back better. John is brusque when he returns home from deployment, monosyllabic, closed off. He barely looks at you, barely speaks to you, sits in his office by himself for hours, cigar smoke creeping out into the hallway while you sit by and wait to see if the man that comes out of the room next will be the sweet, smiling, attentive man that you fell in love with, or the Captain.

You keep your head down when the Captain's home. He only needs two things from you when he's like this, and you're prompt with dinner, and bend over uncomplainingly when he tells you to. It's just a matter of time before your loving husband returns. You just have to be patient.

But this time... He's just John as soon as he walks in the door, and he beams when he sees you, and kisses you like it's all he's been able to think about during the long months away. He pulls you away from the kitchen and makes love to you, and the only smoke that fills the house is the dinner that burns while he refuses to let you out of bed. And then he offers to take you out, or order in. His eyes stay soft, and he doesn't reach for the whiskey or cigars all night.

He's buried face-first in your pussy when the door bangs open, and the Captain comes home. This is the husband you expected, eyes as cold as the stormy Atlantic, tense and ready for a fight, mouth set in a grim line. The look he gives you is murderous before he focuses on the interloper, dragging John away from you roughly.

The Captain hesitates a moment too long when he sees his own face staring back at him. It's long enough for John to lunge at him, the two of them hitting the floor, growling and snapping like dogs. The Captain goes for his gun, and John knocks it out of his grip. It skitters across the floor and stops in front of your feet.

You snatch it up, hands shaking. You tell them to stop, and they both freeze.

"Shoot him," the Captain orders.

It's obvious that John is the pretender. You should have known. It was too much to hope that he would come home happy to see you.

You study them both down the barrel of the gun, meeting the furious eyes of the Captain, and John's soft gaze. He expects that you'll do what you're told and shoot him, and he doesn't blame you. The understanding there is enough to shock you into pulling back the safety.

You take a steadying breath, and fire.

[sentientcave]

John gently pulls the gun from your shaking hands, using his big frame to block out the sight of your husband laying on the floor. You try not to think about the specks of blood that freckle John's face. You try to focus on John's eyes, the guileless blues that you fell in love with, eyes that you haven't seen look at you so softly in too long.

"I'll deal with this," he promises, ushering you into the bathroom. "You have a bath, maybe. Take your time. I'm sorry."

You reach for his arm to stop him from leaving the room. "You're… Staying, right?"

"Of course, sweetheart. Not goin' anywhere. Promise."

That's enough to convince you to let go. You strip off the big t-shirt that you were wearing and step into the shower.

You stand under the spray until the water runs cold, and only then can you will yourself to get out and scrub yourself dry. The bedroom smells strongly of bleach, but there's no sign of blood, and both John and the captain's body are gone.

You find John in the backyard, digging a grave. Your eyes glance off the body-shape wrapped in a tarp laying on the lawn a few feet away. It's impossible to know if you made the right choice.

"You alright?" he asks gently, setting the shovel to the side so he can give you his full attention.

"What… Who…" It's hard to decide what the right question is. "You're not my husband," you say at last.

"I could be," he says. "I'd like to be."

"But you're not."

"No."

"Who-- What are you, then?"

There's a strange look in his eyes for a moment, something dark and distant, like the pale glimmer of starlight across the void. "Does it matter?"

"Yes. No. I don't know. Does it matter?"

"He didn't deserve you."

It's not an answer to the question, not really, but it still tells you something. “Why do you care?”

“Because I love you,” he says, and it sounds easy, coming from his lips. You’re not sure you remember the last time your husband said that he loved you. “I’m never going to hurt you, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

“Are you going to hurt anyone else?”

“No one that doesn’t deserve it.”

That’s no different than usual. John’s made a living out of killing, and you’ve always known that. You ignored the blood on his hands, because he used to make you feel like the centre of the universe. You nod and wrap your robe more securely around yourself as you sit by the head of the grave he stands in.

“Do you remember… No, I guess you wouldn’t.”

He takes your clean hands in his dirt-streaked palms. “I remember everything. I’ve been wih him a long time. Don’t fret, love. It’ll seem like tonight was just a nightmare by the morning. I can make you forget.”

“I don’t want to forget.”

“That’s up to you.” He brings your hands to his mouth and kisses both of them. “Tomorrow, we’ll buy some roses. This is a nice spot for a garden, don’t you think? You’ve said as much before.”

“You were— He was always too busy to help.”

“Not anymore. You just tell me what you want, and I’ll make it happen.”

“Would you quit?” It’s something you never dared ask the Captain. It would have broken your heart to hear him say no.

John doesn’t scoff at the idea the way you know your husband would have. He nods, a pensive look on his face. “I need a little time to wrap up a few loose strings. A year? No more than two.”

“It’s that simple?”

Again, that look, like something ancient and unknowable looks out of those familiar eyes. There for a flicker, and then gone behind a soft smile. “For you? Anything.”

You’ve heard it before, but it’s been a long time since you believed it

Maybe it doesn’t matter what he really is.

He’s John, and you love him.

It’s enough.