Dark Fire

25 yrs old 💜 Just here for the fan fics 😌 Love drawing ✍️

[rayven-dark-fire]

I’ve had a huge worm chewing at my brain telling me to get back into drawing, but I haven’t had enough motivation or inspiration, TILL I read ‘In The Shadows’ by @lologoinsolo

I’ve become obsessed and had to draw a few scenes from it!

I hope, if anything, to bring a few people joy by looking at my art 💜 thank you for all the support! If you have any recommendations please feel free to lmk them!!

[byfawn]

📁 𝐅𝐈𝐋𝐄 𝟎𝟏: EROTIC TRANSFERENCE — an asylum au | 6.0k wc

↳ featuring: sociopath!simon x psychiatrist!reader

ⓘ file preface: he’s a masked sociopath with a filthy mouth and eyes that never stop watching you. you’re the new psychiatrist—young, polished, and far too curious for your own good.

⚠︎ classified triggers: this fic contains explicit and dark themes, including mental instability, psychological manipulation, power imbalances, and dubious consent. sexual content depicted include restraint play, degradation, praise kink, size kink, oral sex, pierced genitals (jacob’s ladder), and intense dom/sub dynamics. additional warnings for asylum settings with disturbing imagery, violence , and heavy psychological tension. the reader engages in self-destructive behavior, shame, and ethical violations (doctor/patient relationship). reader discretion is strongly advised.

event masterlist

the asylum smells like bleach and something older. older than mold, older than rot. something that can't be scrubbed away, no matter how many times the floors are mopped or the walls are wiped down.

it's in the cracks of the tile, the grout between them, the ceiling tiles yellowed with time. not decay, not exactly but close. like the building itself has absorbed every scream, every whispered confession, every last gasp of air from lungs that will never draw breath again.

you have smelled it time and time again. in hospice clinical rotation during medical school, where death comes slow and expected, where the antiseptic tries and fails to mask the stench of dead or dying bodies.

it's even stronger in psych wards, where the air is thick with sweat and fear and the metallic tang of blood flaking off the skulls that have banged into walls one too many times.

the smell clings to your clothes, seeps into the fibers of your white coat, your scrubs, your hair. no amount of detergent or perfume or showers can strip it away. it follows you home, into your apartment, into your bed. it even follows you into your dreams.

but this new job is supposed to be a fresh start. that's what your mentor called it when she pressed the file into your hands three weeks ago. her fingers left faint smudges on the manila folder, the edges worn soft from being handled too many times. the weight of it in your palms feels heavier than it should—not just paper and ink, but something more. 

"try not to be scared of the environment," she said with a tired smile. the lines around her eyes deepened as she spoke, the kind that come from too many late nights and too many patients who never get better. her hand lingered on yours for half a second too long. "focus on the patient. that's where you always shine."

but the asylum doesn't feel like a fresh start. it feels like a place where fresh things go to die.

you pass the nurses' station with a nod, already trying to tune out the screaming echoing from the lower level. it isn't the sharp, sudden kind of scream. it's a scream that sounds like a soul being peeled apart layer by layer. your fingers tighten around the clipboard until your knuckles whiten. the pen cap wedges between your fingers like a weapon—small, pathetic, but yours.

a group of patients shuffle through the far hallway under supervision, their slippers scuffing against tile that hasn't been properly cleaned in years. the nurse pushes a metal cart ahead of them, the trays rattling with little paper cups—each holding colorful pills.

most don't look up. their heads stay bowed, their shoulders hunched, as if carrying a weight no one else can see. some twitch—a finger jerking, an eyelid fluttering. others stare at nothing, their eyes fixed on some middle distance between this world and whatever hellscape lives inside their skulls.

"you get used to it," says dr. carver, your new supervisor, without looking back. his keys jangle as he walks, the sound almost mocking in its cheerfulness.

you don't believe him for a second. your past work experiences have been in the frame of psych wards in hospitals and outpatient clinics—never asylums. asylums are where patients go when nowhere else can contain them. where the worst cases, the truly broken, are sent to be studied like specimens under glass. the kind of place where people are forgotten.

the tour is brisk, clinical. the west wing for the non-violent cases, the east for the ones who need restraints. the common area with its bolted-down furniture, the cafeteria with its plastic utensils counted and recounted. everything designed to keep the chaos contained.

you feel it the moment you step into the east wing—the weight of eyes on you. not just watching. studying.

"this is where you'll be assigned," carver says, stopping in front of a reinforced door. the nameplate reads riley, s. in neat block letters. "high-risk patient. former military. court-mandated after an... incident."

he doesn't elaborate. he doesn't need to. you've read up on his file before going for rounds this morning.

age: 37. former military operative with a service record that is heavily redacted, suggesting involvement in classified black ops. dishonorably discharged under sealed circumstances. following his return to civilian life, riley is implicated in a series of violent homicides—deliberate, ritualistic, and performed with a level of precision that rules out impulse or psychosis.

court-mandated psychiatric evaluation deems him fit for long-term containment at blackwall institute due to extreme sociopathic behavior and the high likelihood of reoffense.

diagnostically, riley meets the criteria for antisocial personality disorder, marked by chronic disregard for the rights and boundaries of others, lack of empathy, and calculated manipulation. he exhibits no delusional thinking, no psychotic breaks, and no evidence of hallucinations.

instead, he operates with full cognitive clarity. his violence is not reactive, but strategic—premeditated acts committed without remorse. he displays an eerie emotional flatness, but maintains a high-functioning intellect and strong interpersonal acuity.

he reads people quickly and accurately, often weaponizing their emotional tells against them. while superficially cooperative, all interactions appear designed to extract information, establish control, or destabilize the other party.

he wears a self-constructed skull mask at nearly all times. when forcibly removed, his behavior becomes volatile. the mask appears to serve a psychological function—both as armor and as a performance. he does not hide behind it so much as embody it. attempts to strip it from him have resulted in injury to staff. for the sake of stability, containment policy has allowed him to retain it during sessions, under heavy physical restraints.

clinical recommendation: treat all interactions as adversarial. do not respond to personal inquiries. do not allow sessions to deviate from their intended therapeutic structure. patient is capable of emotional mimicry but does not possess empathy. any rapport built is likely a means to an end. do not mistake his stillness for submission.

do not underestimate him. control is his currency. you'll only get what he wants to give you, and he'll want to watch what you do with it.

the risk assessment didn't bother with pleasantries:

level 5 containment

subject is non-delusional, cognitively stable, and extremely dangerous. violent outbursts are rare, but never reactive—always premeditated. staff injury incidents occur only when restraints are compromised. he waits. he plans. he attacks.

through the small reinforced window, you see him for the first time. the photo that you saw in his file is grainy and taken through the window of a solitary confinement cell.

he wears a black cloth mask stretched into the pattern of a stylized skull. white smears over the sockets. a grin permanently frozen in place. his eyes are the only visible part of his face—shadowed, half-lidded.

the reinforced glass fogs slightly with your quickened breath as you press closer. the air in the hallway suddenly feels too thick, too still, like the entire wing is holding its breath along with you.

he sits perfectly still on the edge of his cot, back straight, hands resting on his knees. the skull mask stares blankly at the opposite wall, that same frozen grin you saw in the photograph. his shoulders strain against the fabric of his jumpsuit, the material stretched obscenely tight across the impossible breadth of him—no wonder they keep him in reinforced restraints. 

even sitting, he dominates the space, his frame so broad, so solid, it makes the flimsy cot beneath him look like a child's toy. your throat goes dry watching the way his arms bulge where the sleeves pull taut, veins standing in stark relief along corded muscle that flexes just once when he shifts his weight.

his hands are massive where they rest on his knees, fingers thick and capable—you imagine them wrapping around your throat and your pulse jumps traitorously.

of course, they would have him under around the clock supervision. no wonder the restraints are heavy-duty, the door reinforced. he's not just big—he's built like a weapon, every inch of him honed and hardened, radiating a dangerous magnetism that makes your skin prickle with something that isn't quite fear. 

his eyes—the only part of him that moves—track slowly across the room before settling on the door.

on you.

his eyes are much lighter than you expected. but there's something about them that oozes darkness—the kind of darkness that creates a dark pit of fear in your abdomen. they were utterly devoid of anything recognizable as warmth or empathy.

you hold your breath without realizing it. your brain sending signals to your lungs reminding you to breathe.

there's something obscenely compelling about his stillness, about the power coiled in his frame, and it terrifies you how badly you want to see it unleashed.

your fingers tighten around the clipboard, nails biting into your palms as you try to ignore the heat creeping up your neck. the rational part of your brain screams danger while something deeper, something primal thrills at the way his gaze lingers—like he knows exactly what you're thinking, like he's already imagined a dozen ways to ruin you. 

one of his fingers twitches—just once—against his knee. if you had blinked you probably would've missed the action. 

then, with deliberate slowness, he tilts his head. just slightly. it unsettles something in your stomach. you didn't get creeped out easily—especially after years of working in psychiatry. but you would be lying if you weren't scared shitless.

his chest rises once, slow and controlled, the only sign that he was even alive beneath that mask. your skin crawls with unease as you swallow the lump in your throat.

dr. carver cleared his throat. "he's got a session with you in twenty. you'll be supervised, of course." he jangled his keys again, the sound suddenly too loud in the quiet hallway. "just... don't turn your back on him."

you nod in acknowledgment, but your eyes don't leave the his. you swear you see the corners of his eyes crinkle a bit—as of he's smiling under the mask. you don't need to see his face to decipher that he is amused. and if you've learned one thing from the little experience you had in this job—it was never a good think to have a sociopath amused. 

carver shifts beside you, uncomfortable, his keys jangling as he turns. "come on," he mutters, already walking away, his footsteps too loud in the suffocating quiet. "i'll show you the observation room."

you force yourself to step back, your knees slightly bucking as if you've forgotten how to walk. you can feel the shift in the air as you turn to walk away. the heat of his stare doesn't stop. if anything, it burns even stronger now. it settles between your shoulder blades, heavy as a hand pressed flat against your spine. 

it lingers, warm and intrusive, like the ghost of fingers trailing down the knobs of your spine. you can almost feel his breath on the back of your neck, slow and deliberate, though you know he hasn't moved from the cot.

he wasn't just watching. he was claiming. 

you follow carver in silence. you take slow and calculted breaths to re-regulate your nervous system. you weren't even in the same room as him but he somehow managed to completely throw your nervous system into overdrive by the simple act of eye contact.

your footsteps are unnaturally loud in the hush of the east wing. each step feels like it's pulling you deeper into something you won't come back from, and not even the heavens and the hells can chase away the fear pooling in your stomach.

your palms sweat by your sides, still feeling the phantom weight of riley's stare like a brand between your shoulder blades. it doesn't fade with distance, if anything, it grows more intense with each step you take away from his cell, as if the distance only makes his presence more palpable.

your skin prickles with the unsettling awareness that he's still watching, even though you know the reinforced, heavy metal doors and dozens if security measures separate the the two of you.

the walk to the observation room feels like it takes forever. the stillness and silence is broken by the occasional scream or bang. but other than that it seems eerily quiet. too quiet. 

carver pause in front of one of the doors, glancing back at you with an expression you can't quite read. his keys jingle as he shifts his weight, the sound grating against your already frayed nerves. "almost there," he says, but his voice sounds distant, like it's coming through water.

you nod automatically, your tongue heavy in your mouth. some part of you wants to turn around, to look back down that long hallway, to see if—

no. you keep your eyes forward. keep walking.

but the weight of that stare stays with you, pressing insistently against your spine, a silent reminder that this isn't over. that it's only just begun.

the door to the observation room door creaks when carver pushes it open, the sound only further increasing this looming sense of dread. inside, the air is colder, the hum of machinery louder.

a bank of monitors flickers against one wall, showing grainy black-and-white feeds of observation area. the oneway window next to the monitors overlooks the bland room where a floor-mounted table and chairs sit bolted in place.

"session protocols are on the desk," carver says, gesturing to a stack of papers. "review them while i get the orderlies prepped for transfer."

as the door closes and carver leaves, your fingers twitch at your sides, nails digging half-moons into your palms. 

you were nervous. and you were never nervous. nervous meant mistakes and stupid slip-ups. it meant giving him exactly what he wanted: the upper hand. yet here you were, pulse rabbiting in your throat, breaths coming just a fraction too quick. the file with the protocols felt slick in your grip. 

you forced your hands still. forced your spine straight. you were a professional. you'd handled worse.

the protocols blurred in front of you, words swimming together. maintain distance. avoid physical contact. terminate session at first sign of agitation. as if it were that simple. as if he wouldn't see right through the script, wouldn't relish tearing it apart.

your breath catches as movement flickers across the monitors. the feed shows the orderly team leading him in—three of them, all broad-shouldered but dwarfed by riley's hulking frame. 

the straightjacket strains across his chest, the thick canvas barely containing the width of him. his masked face turns slightly as they guide him forward, those pale eyes scanning the room even as his body moves with eerie compliance.

the chair creaks when he sits, metal protesting under his weight. the orderlies work quickly, securing the restraints—thick leather cuffs around his wrists, already buckled tight behind the chair, another strap crossing his chest. 

one orderly kneels to fasten the ankle restraints, hands moving with practiced efficiency. riley watches them, head tilted just slightly, that grotesque mask hiding whatever expression might lie beneath.

when the last buckle clicks into place, the orderlies step back. one of them wipes his brow—you don't miss the way his hand shakes.

on screen, riley tests the restraints. not violently, not even urgently. just a slow, deliberate shift of his shoulders, a flex of his arms. the leather groans but holds. the chair doesn't budge. then, as if sensing your gaze through the camera, his head turns. those dead eyes lock onto the lens causing your stomach drops.

a knock at the door made you flinch. one of the orderlies gruff voices, muffled through the metal: "we're ready."

your breath hitches, fingers tightening around the edge of the desk as you force yourself to look away from the monitor. the cold metal bites into your palms, sharp enough to ground you, to pull you back from the edge of whatever unsettling feeling had taken root in your chest.

you exhale slowly, counting the seconds in your head. four in. seven hold. eight out. the rhythm steadies you, brings the world back into focus.

nervousness was a luxury you couldn't afford. not here. not with him.

when you open your eyes again, your expression is schooled into something neutral, professional. the slight tremor in your hands is gone, tucked away where it can't betray you. you smooth the front of your coat, adjust the clipboard under your arm and brace yourself as you enter the room. 

the scent of antiseptic and metal with a hint of smoke lingers in the stale air of the room. the orderlies file out of the room one-by-one leaving you alone with him. you can feel the hunger of his stare grazing over you leaving goosebumps in it's wake. you swear that your knees buck for a second as you take slow strides towards the chair across from him. 

the chair groans as you lower yourself into it, the sound obscenely loud in the silence. you keep your movements measured, controlled, placing the clipboard on the table with deliberate care.

across from you, he's a study in contained violence. the straightjacket pulls tight across his chest, the thick canvas straining against the sheer bulk of him. even sitting, even restrained, he looms. his thighs spread slightly, taking up space he doesn't need, the chair creaking under his weight.

the mask hides his expression, but his eyes—god, his eyes—never leave yours. dark, piercing, tracking your every breath like a predator savoring its prey.

you clear your own, flipping open the file. "mr. riley," you say, and your voice is steady. professional. you hope to the heavens and the earth that he didn't here the slight tremor in your voice.

his fingers twitch against the armrests, the leather cuffs groaning. a small, almost lazy flex, as if testing the give. as if imagining how easily he could break them. 

the mask tilts slightly, that eerie grin seeming to sharpen. "doctor," he rumbles, your title rolling off his tongue like something illicit. "you're shaking."

you don't look down at your hands. "it's cold in here."

a low hum vibrates through his chest. "liar." the word curls around you, warm and knowing. his knee presses firmer against the table—not an accident this time. the contact burns through the fabric of your slacks.

you exhale sharply through your nose, forcing your fingers to relax around the pen.

"let's focus on your evaluation, mr. riley," you say, clicking your pen with deliberate calm. "how would you describe your current mental state?"

his chuckle is dark, velvety, the sound vibrating through your bones. "frustrated," he purrs, rolling the r like he's savoring it. his knee presses harder against yours beneath the table.

"restrained. pent up." the leather cuffs groan as he flexes his fingers again. "tell me, doctor - does it excite you? seeing me like this?"

your pulse jumps traitorously. "this is a professional setting," you remind him, though your voice wavers slightly. "let's keep it that way."

the mask tilts further, shadows pooling in those hollow eye sockets. "professional," he echoes, mocking. "is that why your cheeks are flushed? why your breathing's gone shallow?" his voice drops to a whisper. "i can see your pulse racing in that pretty neck of yours."

you swallow hard, your throat suddenly dry. "do you always flirt with your doctors, mr. riley?"

"only the ones who squirm for me," he counters smoothly. his thigh rubs against yours in slow, deliberate circles. "ask me your next question, doc. i know you're dying to."

your fingers tighten around the pen. "do you experience violent urges toward staff members?"

his laugh is dark, delicious. "only the pretty ones who lick their lips when they look at me." your tongue darts out instinctively, and his eyes track the movement hungrily. "there she is," he purrs. "was that so hard, doctor?"

your grip tightens on the clipboard, knuckles going white. "we're getting off topic, mr. riley." you force your voice steady, but it comes out breathier than intended. "let's discuss your sleep patterns."

he leans back slightly, the chair groaning under his weight. "sleep patterns?" his voice is all rough velvet, the kind that slides under your skin. "i prefer to stay awake. more... interesting things happen at night." his knee presses harder between yours, the heat searing through your slacks. "don't you agree, doctor?"

your pen hovers over the paper, ink bleeding where you've pressed too hard. "insomnia is a common symptom in your condition," you say, keeping your tone clinical despite the way your pulse jumps at your throat. "we should explore that further."

his chuckle vibrates through the table between you. "oh, i'd love to explore things with you, doc." the way he says it makes your stomach flip. "but we both know you're not here to talk about my sleep."

you force yourself to meet those pale eyes behind the mask. "then enlighten me, mr. riley. why am i here?"

his fingers flex against the restraints again, the leather creaking ominously. "because you couldn't resist." his voice drops to a whisper. "because you saw my file and thought 'i can fix him'." the mask tilts. "or maybe... you thought 'i want him to ruin me'."

your breath catches. "that's—"

"true?" he finishes for you, triumphant. his thigh rubs slow circles against yours, the friction making your skin burn. "tell me i'm wrong."

the clipboard trembles in your hands. you should stand up. you should call for the orderlies. you should do anything but sit here, letting him unravel you with nothing but words and the press of his knee between yours.

"cat got your tongue, doctor?" he murmurs, leaning forward as far as the restraints allow. his breath is warm through the mask's grin. "or are you just imagining all the things i could do to you if these cuffs weren't here?"

your lips part, but the intercom crackles to life before you can respond. "session time elapsed," a bored voice announces.

neither of you acknowledge it.

his eyes gleam behind the mask. "tick tock, doc. better run along before you do something... unprofessional."

you stand abruptly, your legs unsteady. "we'll continue this next session," you say, proud of how steady your voice sounds.

his low laugh follows you to the door. "counting the minutes, sweetheart."

when the heavy door clicks shut behind you, you realize you're shaking. and worse—you're already counting the minutes too.

the next morning, when you walk into the facility, it's with the weight of heavy guilt on your shoulders. your skin still burns with the memory of last night—the way your fingers slipped between your thighs, the way you bit your lip to muffle his name as it tumbled from your mouth in a broken whisper. 

simon riley. 

his voice, rough and mocking, playing in your head like a taunt. his muscles straining against the restraints, the way he looked at you like he knew exactly what you'd do the second you were alone. 

it's insane. you've known him for a day. a single day. you've known him for less than twenty-four hours, and here you are, trembling like some desperate thing, already ruined by a man who's done nothing but toy with you.

maybe you're the one who belongs in this place. maybe you should check yourself in, let them strap you down, let them study whatever sickness has taken root in you so fast. but then you think of his laugh, dark and knowing, and your stomach twists. he'd love that, wouldn't he? seeing you unravel. seeing you break. god, you're pathetic. 

the moment you step inside, the head nurse gives you a sharp look.

"riley's in solitary," she says, voice clipped. "attacked an orderly last night. broke the man's nose before they got him down."

your breath catches. "is he—"

"fine? unfortunately." she hands you a file. "session's still on. carver's orders. but you'll be in the black cell. no cameras. no interruptions." her eyes narrow. "you sure you're up for it?"

you don't trust yourself to answer.

the black cell is exactly what it sounds like—a concrete box swallowed by shadows, the only light a dim flicker from the hall. the air is thick, humid, pressing against your skin like a hand. you feel clusterphobic the second you step in. your heels clack against the damp concrete as you in closer. 

it takes your eyes a bit to adjust to the darkness before you see him. you feel your pulse quicken and your breathe hitch as soon as your eyes catch his.

the door clangs shut behind you, the sound final. the air is thick, pressing in from all sides, making your pulse throb in your throat. you force yourself to take a step forward, heels clicking against the damp concrete. "mr. riley," you say, voice steadier than you feel. "care to explain last night's incident?"

in the center, restrained tighter than usual in a straight jacket, is him. even in the darkness of the cell or room or whatever this was, you could feel the depraved darkness in his eyes. they must've sedated him or given him something to calm down because his pupils were the size of saucers.

his head lifts slowly, those blown-out pupils swallowing nearly all the color in his eyes. even in the dim light, you can see the way his gaze drags over you—hungry, possessive. "got bored," he rumbles, voice rough like gravel. "figured solitary was better than staring at the same four walls."

you click your pen, feigning indifference. "so you broke a man's nose for a change of scenery?"

his lips curl, slow and knowing. "worth it."

you swallow hard. "that's not an acceptable answer."

"no?" the straightjacket creaks as he shifts, testing the restraints. "then give me a better one, doc."

you take another step closer, ignoring the way your skin prickles. "try this—you acted out because you struggle with impulse control. because you—"

"because i wanted you alone," he interrupts, voice dropping to a growl. "no cameras. no orderlies. just you. and me."

your breath hitches. "that's—"

"true." his eyes lock onto yours, unblinking. "admit it. you thought about it too."

your fingers tighten around the clipboard. "this isn't appropriate."

"neither was what you did last night," he murmurs, tilting his head. "i know you touched yourself."

your face burns as you attempt to feign innocence and indifference. "we're not discussing that."

"why not?" he leans forward as far as the jacket allows, voice a dark whisper. "scared i'll tell them how you were squirming in your seat like a little whore for a —"

"enough." your voice cracks. "we're here to evaluate your behavior, not—"

"evaluate this, then." his knee brushes yours, the contact deliberate. "i fought my way in here because i knew you'd follow. because i knew you wouldn't be able to resist." his gaze drags down your body. "so tell me, doctor—who's really in control here?"

the clipboard nearly slips from your sweaty palms as his voice wraps around you like smoke, low and dripping with sin. "you wanna know why i really did it, doc?" he leans closer, the straightjacket straining against his shoulders. "because i knew they'd put me in here. no windows. no guards. just you, me, and that pretty little mouth of yours."

you force yourself to take a shaky breath, gripping the clipboard tighter. "let's... let's focus on last night's incident, mr. riley. what triggered the violent outburst?"

his laugh is dark, curling around you like smoke. "oh, doc. still playing pretend?" he shifts in the straightjacket, the material straining against his broad shoulders. "i already told you why i did it. wanted you alone. wanted you...vulnerable."

your throat goes dry. "that's not—"

"not what?" he interrupts, voice dropping to a rough whisper. "not true? then why are your thighs squeezing together like that? why's your breath hitching every time i move?"

you swallow hard, trying to ignore the heat pooling low in your stomach. "this is inappropriate."

"inappropriate," he echoes mockingly. "like you rubbing your clit last night, thinking about me? imagining my hands on you? my mouth?"

your face burns. "stop it."

"or what?" he challenges, tilting his head. "you'll walk away? we both know you won't." his voice drops even lower, rough and filthy. 

"you wanna know what i'd do to you if these restraints were off, doc? i'd start with those pretty little fingers of yours—pin them behind your back so you couldn't touch yourself. then i'd bend you over and spank that swollen, desperate clit of yours until you were sobbing. just light taps at first, enough to make you squirm. then harder. harder. until you're begging me to let you come."

your knees nearly buckle.

"you'd love that, wouldn't you?" he murmurs, watching your reaction with predatory satisfaction. "being at my mercy? taking whatever i decide to give you?"

your lips part, but no sound comes out.

"that's what i thought," he purrs. "such a good little whore for me."

the silence stretches between you, thick with tension. you can hear your own pulse roaring in your ears. his gaze burns into you, unrelenting, waiting.

"show me," he murmurs, voice rough as gravel. "show me how you touched yourself thinking about me."

your breath hitches. "i—i can't—"

"you can," he growls. "and you will." his eyes darken further. "unless you want me to rip out of this straight jacket and force you.."

the clipboard clatters to the floor as your fingers tremble at the hem of your skirt. his dark chuckle vibrates through the humid air between you, those blown-out pupils swallowing you whole. "that's it," he purrs, voice thick with approval. "show me how desperate you really are."

your breath comes in shallow gasps as you slide your hand beneath the fabric, fingertips brushing over damp silk. a whimper escapes your lips before you can stop it.

"louder," he growls, straining against the straightjacket. "let me hear what i do to you."

your fingers slip beneath the waistband, finding yourself already embarrassingly wet. the first brush of your fingertips against your clit has your hips jerking forward.

"fuck," he breathes, watching with rapt attention. "just like that. pretend it's my fingers, doc. my thick fucking fingers working that tight little cunt open."

you moan, circling your clit faster as his filthy words wash over you.

"you thought about this, didn't you?" he continues, voice rough. "alone in your bed, fucking yourself on your fingers like some cheap slut? imagining it was me?"

"yes," you gasp, arching into your own touch.

"say it." his command leaves no room for argument. "say you're my little whore."

"i'm—" your breath hitches as you press two fingers inside yourself, "—i'm your whore."

his groan is animalistic. "good girl. now come for me."

your orgasm crashes over you violently, thighs trembling as you ride out the waves against your own fingers. when you finally come down, panting and boneless, his smirk is downright predatory.

you're still trembling from your orgasm when his voice cuts through the haze, rough with command. "come here." 

your legs move before your brain catches up, knees hitting the cold concrete as you shuffle forward. your fingers fumble with the waistband of his pants, breath hitching when you finally free him.

and fuck—

a jacob's ladder. of course he has one. the metal glints even in the dim light, each barbell making your mouth water. you're delirious, mind fogged with lust and shame, but you can't stop.

"that's it," he growls, watching you through heavy-lidded eyes. "take what you need."

your tongue darts out, tentative at first, tracing the underside of his cock. the taste of him—salt and musk and something darkly him—has you moaning before you even take him fully into your mouth.

"fuck," he hisses, hips jerking slightly despite the restraints. "just like that, doc. such a pretty fucking mouth."

you hollow your cheeks, taking him deeper, the metal bars dragging against your tongue in the most delicious way. your fingers dig into his thighs, nails leaving crescent moons in their wake.

"you like that, don't you?" he taunts, voice thick with amusement. "my little professional doctor, on her knees, gagging for it."

you whimper around him, the vibration making his cock twitch.

"bet you've never had anything like me," he continues, rolling his hips just enough to nudge the back of your throat. "bet you're already thinking about how it'll feel when i finally fuck you raw."

you are. god, you are.

your free hand slips between your own legs again, fingers circling your clit as you suck him off with desperate, sloppy bobs of your head.

"that's it," he praises, voice rough. "get yourself ready for me. gonna ruin you so good, you'll forget your own fucking name."

you're climbing into his lap before you can think better of it, your skirt hiked up around your waist, his cock glistening with your spit. the straightjacket rustles as he strains against it, his eyes black with hunger as you hover over him.

"do it," he growls, voice rough. "use me. take what you fucking need, doctor."

you sink down onto him with a gasp, the stretch burning in the best way. the metal bars of his ladder drag against your walls, sending sparks up your spine. your hands scramble for purchase against his shoulders as you start to move, your hips rolling in slow, desperate circles.

"fuck," he hisses, his head falling back against the wall. "look at you. riding me like you were made for it."

you whimper, your nails digging into the thick material of the jacket as you bounce harder, chasing your own pleasure. his cock hits that perfect spot inside you with every thrust, the metal bars adding an unforgiving edge that has you seeing stars.

"that's it," he rasps, watching you with dark, blown-out pupils. "take it. take every fucking inch." his voice drops to a whisper, filthy and rough. "wish you could see yourself right now. fucking yourself on me like a desperate little slut."

you moan, your thighs trembling as you grind down harder, your clit rubbing against the base of him with every movement.

"you're lucky i'm strapped down, sweetheart," he murmurs, lips curling into a smirk. "because if i had my hands free?" his hips jerk up, forcing a choked cry from your throat. "i'd have you bent over, screaming my name."

you're close—so, so close—your breaths coming in ragged gasps as you chase your release.

"come on," he goads, voice rough with command. "let me feel it. let me feel that tight little cunt squeezing around me."

you shatter with a sob, your orgasm crashing over you like a wave, your walls fluttering around him as you ride it out. he groans, low and satisfied, as you collapse against his chest, boneless and spent.

his mask brushes against your ear, his whisper sending a shiver down your spine. "good girl."

you whimper, still trembling, as his smirk grows darker under the mask.

you scramble off him with shaky legs, your skirt falling back into place with a rustle that sounds obscenely loud in the heavy silence. your fingers fumble as you pull his pants back up, avoiding eye contact, avoiding the way his smirk burns into you even through the mask. the straightjacket strains as he shifts, watching you with those dark, knowing eyes. 

your hands tremble as you smooth down your blouse, tucking loose strands of hair behind your ear. you must look wrecked—lips swollen, cheeks flushed, thighs still sticky with the evidence of your shame. thank god for the darkness. thank god no one will see.

your breath hitches as you bend to pick up the clipboard, your knees still weak. the pen rolls away from you, and you flinch when he nudges it back toward you.

"careful, doc," he murmurs, voice rough with amusement. "wouldn't want you to leave anything behind."

you snatch the pen, your face burning. your mind races—what the fuck did you just do? you fucked a patient. a dangerous, unstable, manipulative patient. a fucking killer and sociopath. and worse—you loved it. you came harder than you have in years, and the guilt is already curdling in your stomach like poison.

you straighten, forcing your voice steady. "this—this can't happen again."

his chuckle is low, mocking. "sure it can't."

you turn toward the door, your legs unsteady beneath you.

"great session, doctor," he calls after you, his voice dripping with dark amusement. "can't wait for the next one."

[ceilidho]

Margaritaville | MASTERLIST

PRICE x READER

For days now, you’ve been seeing the same broad-shouldered man lounging around the resort.

Or: the knocked up on vacation au

tags: Size Difference, Size Kink, Explicit Sexual Content, AFAB reader - Freeform, Older Man/Younger Woman, Light Dubious Consent, Husband-Wife Play, Breeding Kink

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3

Extras

Series moodboard

[softaestluv]

Turning Page | Masterlist

You work at the library Simon and his daughter frequent.

single dad! alpha Simon Riley x librarian! omega Reader

please heed tags before each chapter

⤷ Fancy Nancy

⤷ Corduroy

⤷ Rainbow Fish

⤷ Angelina Ballerina

⤷ Rainbow Fish & 2

⤷ Chapter 6

ao3 | main masterlist

[softaestluv]

Turning Page

You work at a library Simon and his daughter frequent.

single dad! Simon Riley & Librarian! Reader

tags | alpha! Simon Riley, Omega! Reader, abo dynamics, mentions of mating bonds, scenting, fluff, eventual romance, girl-dad, retired Simon, angst

ch. 2 | masterlist | ao3

Simon sees it on his way out a week later.

Pink chalk, copperplate calligraphy, and rainbow ribbons. He stops when he sees your name, swirled and adorned with a doodled heart:

Join us for story time!

Every Wednesday afternoon.

It’s branded in his mind, engraved on the insides of his eyelids as he goes about the rest of his day. He can’t shake it, rattling in his thoughts, debating, coming to a decision when it’s as if he can taste your jasmine scent on his tongue before changing his mind completely when the image of fading teeth surfaces.

Clementines at the kitchen table, painting an extravagant picture she spent half the day drawing. He should really be sitting with her, help her from spilling the paint on the wooden table or smearing it all over her forearms and shirt, but he lets her make a mess.

Can’t really do much when his main concern is feeding her, when she insisted they eat breakfast for dinner tonight. So, he’s busy cooking pancakes, trying his best to make them fluff and not fall flat against the pan because that’s the way she likes them. Trying his best to bury the chalkboard with the stupid heart somewhere far, deep, from the forefront of his mind.

He watches Clementine between flips, corners of his lips tugged into a smile when she furrows her brows and juts her tongue out in concentration just like he used to. There’s pink paint on her cheek, blue drops on her white shirt that’ll probably stain, but he can’t find it in himself to really care. He can just buy her another, it’s nothing compared to the proud smile she beams up at him when she’s finished. He’ll get her an apron.

“Look, Daddy! Do you like it?”

His chest constricts when he comes closer, when she points to the scraggly stick figures she’s drawn.

“That one’s Daddy.”

She's painted his tattoos, black ink bleeding on his forearm as he holds her hand.

“This one’s Mint.”

She gave herself a pink triangle dress, painted her blonde hair into piggy tails.

“I love it, pup.” He tells her, petting the back of her head before kissing the crown.

It’s just the two of them, like it’s always been. Clementine’s other hand was empty, stretched out to hold nothing. Blank spot, nothing but white paper on her right side.

“Should we tack it up?” He asks.

She nods enthusiastically, nose scrunched and eyes squished as she watches him place it on the fridge. Smiles even wider when he drops half a plate of pancakes and half a plate of syrup in front of her.

They end the night like that, like they always do: dinner and a bath. Scrubs the paint and tacky syrup off her tiny hands and teeth before crawling into bed. He sits there, lets her browse her mini library and pick her own bedtime story. She crawls to his side once she’s content with her choice, curling herself onto his chest and into the nook of his arm.

It’s the same every time— Fancy Nancy.

She’s asleep before he even finishes the book, soft purr vibrating from her little chest. He falls asleep like that most of the time, long feet falling off her tiny bed, and smushed against her teddy bears. He knows he shouldn’t, that she should be sleeping on her own, but he sleeps best when he’s got his girl in his arms, safe.

On other nights, like this, he finds himself in the kitchen, kettle on the stove, staring at the fridge. Theres that damn painting of him and Mint. An incomplete family, broken and fractured, just like his was. A missing piece that Clementine deserves.

He makes his decision by the time he finishes his cup of tea.

You’re wearing overalls this time, turtle neck on under. He’s grateful; he doesn’t have to stare at the reminder of why he shouldn’t be there in the first place.

He sticks out like a sore thumb squashed on a child’s chair, back hunched because Mint insisted he sit next to her. Ex-military, uncouth appearance, tattoos curled around his arms, scars decorating his flesh, and a brooding gaze that only softens when he glances at his Clementine.

You smile at them, dainty fingers tugging at the strings in his chest that aren’t quite ready to unfold, yet. It only gets worse when you start to read the book— Corduroy.

He doesn’t even pay attention to the plot line, let alone the words that are coming out of your mouth. His alpha won’t let him, it’s too transfixed. Focused on the way your lips move, the cadence of your voice, and how it webs its way through the soles of his feet. Netting and lacing its own string around his heart that’s only big enough for Clementine.

You finish the book once before you take volunteers to read it aloud with you. Clementine jumps at the opportunity, raising her arm high, and bouncing in her seat. You laugh at her excitement, urging her forward, but she turns to him first, silently asking his permission.

He nods. “Go on, pup.”

She smiles brightly at that, plopping herself into your lap with a happy squeal. She stutters through most of the words, relying on you to read the word first before she tries her best to sound them out herself.

It’s precious. His Clementine is precious.

He can’t even hold back his grin, doesn’t even try.

It’s sweet. You’re sweet.

Holding her so gently in your lap, nodding encouragingly when she tries to sound out words she doesn’t immediately recognize. The sight pinches his heart, makes his chest fucking ache because Clementine keeps peering up at you with reverence in her eyes, waiting for your approval.

And you’re nothing but sweet to his girl, make her tiny body swell with pride.

An omega figure in her life she doesn’t have, a mother figure she doesn’t have.

Clementine’s scent is strong, seeping through the crowd each time you compliment her. More pungent with each passing second. You match her citrus smell with your jasmine, twining both of your scents into something intoxicating.

Possessive.

It makes his alpha thrash. Claw at his chest because that’s his girl, his sweet Clementine, and the remnants of something that should be theirs.

Clementine runs to him after, “Daddy, did you hear me?”

“Of course, Minty baby. You did so well, I’m so proud of you.”

She wrangles her way into his grasp, snuggling into his lap and into his arms. He holds her close the entire time, watching you read with a few more pups. The time away — a week, almost made him forget how ethereal you were. How homely you felt, like you were the missing part of his childhood. The feeling of going to grandma's house during wintertime time where she had the fireplace running and cookies in the oven. Where she had shitty movies on VHS, so they read books together instead. Where she smothered him in kisses and scenting in dramatics when she sent him home.

The feeling he knows his Clementine doesn’t know.

She only knows alphas, roughened military aphas. Dominant and testosterone-driven alphas in his pack, that they love, of course. They wouldn’t change Uncle Johnny for the world, but she’s missing the tenderness, gentleness only an omega can bring.

He tries his best, treats her as gently as possible, and reverted every ugly attribute about himself so he could to be soft with his baby girl. But violence is in his nature. Trained and practiced, muscle memory to inflict pain.

Corduroy is the only book Clementine wants to check out after, insists she takes it home that same night. Except, by the time they get to the counter, the only copy left has already been checked out by another kid.

“But, Papa, I want it!” Clementine protests, crossing her tiny arms over her chest in disapproval.

“I know, Mint, but they already gave it to another pup.” He explains, but she’s not having it, she stomps her feet and angles her chin up in retaliation.

“Clementine.” He says a little more sternly, squatting down to her eye level. “What did I tell you about sharing?”

She matches his gaze, her little lips pursed in a frown before mumbling quietly, “We share with our friends.”

“Good girl.” He praises, cupping the back of her neck to brush his thumb against her scent gland in soothing strokes, “I know you want it, pup, but so did that other little boy, right? We can ask the librarian to put it to the side for us for next time, okay?”

She nods solemnly with glassy eyes, pattering her way to your side, and tugging on your overalls to get your attention. You look down in surprise, bending down to talk to her.

“Hi there, sweetheart,” You greet softly, “Did you need help with something?”

Clementine bounces her head in agreement, “Um, Miss. Librarian, I wanted the book about the bear.”

“Corduroy?”

“Yes! Someone took it.” Clementine explains, “Can you save it for me next time?”

“Oh! I could offer you something even better.” You say, leaning closer like you’re sharing a secret just for her, “Do you want to know what it is?”

Clementine nods eagerly, staring at you with wide eyes, and a loud ‘mmh.’

“I have my very own copy of Corduroy. If you come back tomorrow, I’ll have it waiting just for you.” You tell her, “But, it’s from when I was a little girl, so you have to promise to be very careful with it.”

“I promise!” Clementine cheers, placing her hands on her hips firmly.

You smile, “Then, tomorrow you have your mommy or daddy bring you and I’ll have it for you, okay?”

“But, Miss. Librarian, I don’t have a mommy.”

Your mouth parts in shock, eyes widening slightly before you fall back into pace again, “That’s quite alright isn’t it? Do you want to know another secret?”

“Mmmhuh.” Clementine steps closer with glimmering eyes to listen to your confession.

“I don’t have a mommy anymore either.” You whisper.

“You don’t?” Clementine gasps in surprise.

“Nope,” You shake your head, “Not anymore.”

“And, your overalls have both buttons! Like Corduroy!” Clementine exclaims, pointing to each button.

You chuckle, “That’s right, they do. Means I’m quite alright, aren’t I? Means you’ll be quite alright too. Buttons and all.”

You stand up at that, turning to face Simon with a timid expression, “As long as that’s okay with you?”

“You don’t have to do that.” He replies, staring down at your smaller frame.

Maybe he shouldn’t.

Maybe he shouldn’t look at you like he intends something more than he can say right now, but he does anyway. Greedy alpha seeping into his irises.

“No worries! It’s not like I’m really using it right now.”

You laugh, pulling at the collar of your turtle neck like you’re nervous, skin warming at his dominant stare, diverting your own gaze somewhere else. It reveals a smidge of your bite, makes his teeth fucking ache. Molars throbbing in his gums at the glimpse of skin that should wear his claim.

He hates that he likes it, that he’s the reason there’s a warmth radiating up your spine to your neck. Resting right where your mates bite is, makes you feel immoral because he scorches the indents with him. You cover the bite with your palm, pressing down on it like it stings, licking your lips anxiously.

“We’ll be ‘ere tomorrow, then.”

“See you, then.”

@night-shadowblood-writes2 @thetastewassweeter @eremika104 @animegamerfox @oaksgrove @dawnnightshade666 @chaieanne @trulovekay @appalachianecho @grossitsluca @noonespecial2347 @spidersuneee @ihe4rtme @lunamoonbby @iaozuyiling @aggiesramble @novthewolf @irondreamerface @callsignpxnguin @flowerluvr

[luvbabydoll]

[kismetlotts-deactivated20260718]

cw: money kink? Simon is obsessed, Simon loves you spending his money and giving you money, strangers online, mentions of male masturbation, mentions of oral sex, reader streams and goes live a lot, mentions of poor financial situation, Simon yearns, controlling, reader starts an OnlyFans, jealous Simon Riley, mentions of the name 'Daddy'

Simon Riley who barley uses social media and doesn't understand it well. He supposes he’s never really had a proper reason to. Sometimes he would check up on his teammates private lives, see how they are doing when they are away and off duty; sometimes he could be caught watching the odd dog meme video that pops up- earning a small, slither of a smile from the scarred stoic man.

But honestly, he’s never had a reason to bother, no account profile picture or bio and a randomly generated username he wouldn't know how to change even if he wanted to. Most of the time he would have two or three followers and always one of them was someone he had no idea of.

He never had a reason to give a shit about the online world, not until he saw you.

Sat at your desk, eyes sparkling under your warm ceiling light. Eagerly reading the chat-box at the bottom of your stream as you answered peoples questions with genuine interest. Your smile made his chest burn hot and his eyes caught notice of your fingers fidgeting with your hair. You were stunning, absolutely fucking breathtaking and Simon couldn't get enough; he needed you.

He would join every single live, not messaging or saying anything to you but just watching and suffocating in silence. He wouldn't miss the way you licked your lips wet and chewed on your lower lip as you waited for more people to join. If it wasn't for his expertise in self control he would've been fisting his cock to the sight of you.

He would have you full blast on his phone as he pottered around his house, your angelic voice singing out words of ecstasy through the cold empty walls like you were there with him. His precious little sweetheart, living with him in his head and in his home. Who would've thought a stranger like you could mess someone like Simon up this fucking badly?

He learnt things about you, jotting them down in the notebook of his brain. Learnt the places you wanted to travel to and experiences you wanted to live- and found himself wanting to be beside you: witnessing it first hand. He found himself for the first time in years wanting to live and not just survive.

Despite his toll of silence, you didn't miss the way he was always there. Checking the viewer count to see his account right at the top as per usual. Time didn't seem to matter either, when you had woken up at early in the morning and decided to go live out of boredom- he was there. In the middle of the day when you were on your lunch break, ragged looking earphones trailing out your ear as you whispered into the microphone at the back of the café, he was there watching. He was always there and it felt strange.

In honesty, his consistency petrified you. You knew it was all in your head but the nagging feeling that it was one of your fucked up, clingy exes, still keeping tabs on you despite going your separate ways, made you sick. Hoping was all you could ever do because you wouldn't dream of confronting the mysterious account that was watching, lingering and following you every second your phone was powered on. It was highly unlikely to be anyone you knew and you weren't entirely sure if that was for better or worse.

When your first couple of donations rolled in, you didn't know what to say. Smiling and thanking the donators by name as your cheeks heated up.

You never asked for money or pleaded for donations; the option was always there if people wanted to. You certainly weren't going to beg or come across as a 'money hungry' but some extra cash on the side was definitely not a bad idea. The fact that people were so generous and kind to donating pennies and pieces to help reach the goal of buying your own place. It wasn't much people were sending in but every little help strangers would accompany you with, made you realise the world wasn't so selfish after all: and when Simon noticed this. He reached for his card.

Hundreds, multiple hundreds and it was just a ridiculous amount of money that piled in from his account. It was the first time you had seen him interact with you aside from liking your content or watching your streams- what the fuck were you supposed to say? Your eyes would lock onto the screen, mouth slightly agape revealing your wet tongue as you tried to find the words. Simon fucking groaned.

The blank, grey profile picture looked back at you with numbers you couldn't comprehend attached to it. Simon was helping you tremendously and despite your gratefulness you couldn't help but end your stream- guilt surfacing in your throat because that was a lot of money to be handing away to a stranger. It felt rude taking it, you were scared to take it- it felt like borrowed money not gifted money because who sends someone that amount of cash. Who in their right fucking mind?

The worst part was he didn't stop there- in honesty, watching how fogged your mind got and watching the way you struggled for words- he couldn't find himself able to stop. It was a high for him, he wanted to give you everything you wanted.

He would crack his neck, a moan falling from his lips as he clicked on your live with a grin. Adrenaline fuelling his body as he sent more, and more, and more until he heard the shake in your voice. 'Stop' falling from your lips between nervous giggles and he knew you meant it, feeling his heart ricochet in his chest but still, he continued.

The mental aspect of the situation had led you to taking a short break off of streaming, you were sure he wasn't some crazy ex from the amount of money he had given you and the realisation it was some random stranger always being there instead, didn't make you as uncomfortable as you thought it would've. He was probably some old man with a fetish for seeing some girl like you everyday and spoiling you. The worst case scenario was that he could be a stalker or a murderer who had taken a liking into you- but even then you were highly careful of what you let slip online and who could be out there.

It was difficult, you wanted him to leave as much as you wanted him to stay- you couldn't block him after he had spent all that money on you and as much as you wished he wouldn’t have done that: it was very helpful.

A good few weeks had past since you had uploaded and you figured that he would be onto some other girl by now. Splashing the cash for some supermodel look alike as he whispers into her microphone things that drive men wild. But of course that wasn't the case.

Simon was going fucking haywire. He couldn't sleep without hearing your muffled little voice in his dreams, your sleeping little face and messed up hair with your tantalisingly lowcut pyjamas, where were you? Where had you disappeared to? He would check your account religiously, just in case you posted and his notification didn't go off. He had googled ways to tell if he had been blocked- but the reality of the situation was that you had just became inactive.

It made his lungs ache and knees weak without hearing your voice daily- just old videos he had re-watched over and over again. Your absence worried him and it worried himself with how badly he was getting attached to you. His days felt like months, his strong demeanour replaced by one that was moping and mourning. Jesus- you weren't fucking dead. If you were fucking dead he would ruin whatever stole you from him. Was this stalker like behaviour? Was he being a fucking loser for worrying about you?

Upon your return you had decided to create a dreaded OnlyFans account. It was just to raise money and you weren't expecting to blow up into some massive porn star earing millions from sex work- you kept it pretty downlow. It was as much humiliating as it was necessary- without Simon there to send you hundreds of pounds, you needed the extra pay for groceries and rent money. Plus- it seemed everyone your age was doing it so what was the harm? You uploaded a quick video to promote your new account, posted it and sat down at your one seat table.

The cold of the wooden chair hitting your thighs and the dim lights of your kitchen made you realise how tiny your apartment was. Even for one person you felt like you were incarcerated- stuck in a prison cell but you couldn't afford to leave yet. The sound of your swallow echoing into the silence as you finished up your instant ramen- humming in satisfaction as your phone hummed to. You picked it up, your stomach turning cold as a message request came through.

How much to delete your OnlyFans Account?

Simon was fucking seething. Posting your tits- your body, that little mouth of yours sucking on objects that weren't his cock for other men to see? For other men to pay for? He almost cracked his phone when he opened your notification to that and he would've if it wasn't for his urgency to get you to delete your account. He had heard of OnlyFans, he wasn't daft and you were coming off there whether you liked it or not.

Your heart stuttered seeing the familiar account and a scoff of shock fell from your lips. He hadn't forgotten you after all. The mysterious account had finally broke his silence and your stomach fluttered with feeling you couldn't make sense of. He hadn't moved on from you, he couldn't move on from you- should you be weirded out by this?

Sorry?

How much to delete your OnlyFans Account. Now?

The pulse in your vein throbbed as you finally made sense of his question. The giddy feeling from earlier at the realisation he was waiting for you, subsided into thick strings of anxiety. Hypothetically, if you had run your account on there for a good few months, posting regularly and having a handful of subscribers- you would bring home a good portion of money to save up. You couldn't ask him for a lot of money- especially after all the money he had already gave but you couldn't delete your account for little to nothing. So, you took the time to nicely write back to him and explain your financial situation to him. Explaining how you need to money to help save for a future house- that you need food and necessities and that your shitty job doesn't pay you enough.

The chat fell silent, Simon began to type and then stopped- disappearing and you shut your phone off worried you had either overshared and accidently unloaded everything onto him or upset him.

I mean- you didn't owe him anything- he donated all that money to you on his behalf but you couldn't help the niggling feeling of regret and shame that you had offended someone so nice that had done so much for you. You told yourself that he was still probably some creep, some fucked up pervert that probably only watched for one thing. But if that was the case, why would he be against your OnlyFans? Maybe you read him wrong- or maybe he wanted you all for himself.

You felt your phone ping again, opening the chat to a payment of multiple thousands.

This your spending money for food and whatever else you want. And I can buy you a house darling, don't you worry.

The high numbers full your screen and you blinked. Your head unable to comprehend if this was real or not. A whole house? Spending money? Was this guy fucking rich? He obviously had money to give away willingly so there was no doubt he was rich. But still though, did he not have a family to spend this money on- or anything better to do with it? Without properly thinking you typed back your response, sitting back on your chair as your eyes darted around your small apartment. Was he deadly serious about buying you a house?- Who were you kidding, of course he was serious.

Are you a sugar daddy or something?

Simons concrete façade broke as he snorted, reading your message. Imagining your sweet, pretty, intoxicating voice reading it out to him while he melts and loses himself in you. He should just send you his card and bank details- he should just send you all of his fucking money and spoil you absolutely rotten. He would give you anything you wanted- he would let you walk all over him and drain his fucking account. The thought of you all dolled up, new shoes, new clothes, new perfume. The thought of you comfortable, clean and fed- fuck he had never felt this horny and desperate before. He fisted his cock through his jeans as he sat up on his couch, stretching and adjusting a little before looking back down at the message. Fingers typing back a reply before plopping his phone down beside him.

Not a sugar daddy, I just like your smile, Sunshine.

But if you really wanted to call me daddy, I wouldn't be opposed to the idea.

[rayven-dark-fire]

Couldn’t help but to draw readers POV at the end of chapter 8 of “In The Shadows” by @lologoinsolo

It’s a quick drawing but I had fun with this!! ❤️

I tried to give it the idea of reader having a panic attack/in shock, and the phone being the main focus.

Thanks for the support!!

[ghouljams]

Welcome to the Show

Hello, hello! I'm Ghoul(they/them) and I write fic, like a lot of fic. This is my Directory

I write in second person(you) so all of my fic can be read as x reader, and you can think of any callsigns/nicknames as your own. However, my fic is technically x oc, if that's not for you no problem! I don't include descriptions or names in any of my fics.

I am an adult writing stories about adults for adults, and so Minors and Ageless Blogs Do Not Interact

I do not give consent for my work to be used in ai, be that ai chats or ai writing. This is a hard boundary I will not budge on.

Buy me a Ko-fi! And check out my ao3

Here I am on bluesky!

COD AUs

Cowboys Fae Demons Ballet Historic Aus Sin Summer Ghost!Ghost Regency Au Cyberpunk Au The Ghost Distribution System Professor Au I want the Darlings Sugar Daddy!Hesh SCP-141 Shining Au The Price of Fire Alone on the Holidays? Hephaestus!Nikto The Doll Au Cult Au

FAQ:

Can I write Fic with your OCs?

Yep! Just tag me in it if you post it.

Can I tell you about an OC I have for [insert au]?

Of course! OC talk is always open, but posting is contained to the morning.

Can I draw you OCs?

Yes. BUT I try to keep their descriptions vague so people can use them as Reader inserts, so I might not post/reblog it if you submit/post the art.

Do you take requests?

Sort of. If you have thoughts I'd love to hear them and if they inspire me I'll write something, but it might not be exactly what you requested. I tend to use asks as jumping off points rather than direct requests.

Do you cross post to anywhere else?

Yup! My ao3 account is actualPrincess

Could you make a character AI for [insert character or au]?

No. I absolutely abhor ai and hope it crashes and burns before it does any more damage to art and creativity. Role-Play in a discord server like an adult.

Do you have a list of your OCs anywhere?

Yup. Here you go!

Ghoul's Hozier Bullshit

Pillow Princess Ghost

Dividers by @/cafekitsune

[lologoinsolo]

In The Shadows

Chapter 7, Chapter 8

In The Shadows Masterlist.

TW: I do not believe there is any triggers but there is brief mentions of blood that Reader cleans away from her shed. She also gets a bit of a panic episode and starts scratching at herself.

The night of… no one comes to you. You stayed awake as long as you could before going right back to bed. It bothers you that neither Soap nor Gaz nor even this “Captain” came to speak to you. You half expected Soap’s bloodied face and teeth to show up but to your surprise he didn’t come to taunt you. At least there won’t be newer nightmares to come haunt you. For now…

Still though, you had your binoculars moving around. Hopeful to catch nothing and something at the same time but the night was completely bare of the monsters that come a knocking. Any other night and you would’ve pulled the nails off your window to sit outside on your roof. The stars were bright out but you knew better than to step out. Last thing you need is the dinner bell to sound off, maybe that’s what they would’ve wanted. Pretend it’s all clear to lure prey to step out of their hidey holes.

It’s almost like they’re saying. “Step outside, I’m not moving about. Come on, look how clear it is outside. Won't you open the door?”

You wish you could go out but you’ve taken to sitting now. Jotting down and scribbling away on your thoughts and ideas. You’ve long since chewed up your pen, biting on it hard enough to leave indentions. Anxiety has never been a friend of yours but it does keep you on the ball with how you’ll check every 5 or so minutes with your binoculars. It’s a complete ghost town by now. Hell, not even Mask is out. You half expected him to be smuggled away in with the treeline. There is some lights on in some houses but it’s not unusual to see. Some people like the lights on, makes it harder for the monster to hide in the dark.

…

The next day or rather afternoon is normal. Birds are chirping outside and there's a pretty blue sky out. A nice sway in the trees and some swish in the few tufts of tall grass. It'd be a dream if it weren’t for the fact that your cheek was smooshed up against your desk. An imprint of the edge of your journal left a mean looking indent but nothing you can’t rub out or pat away. Your handwriting though… it definitely got worse the longer you had stayed up and more sporadic.

“No one’s here. Why is no one here? They should be moving?”

“When was the last time it was this quiet?”

“This house is so loud. Why is it so loud?”

Oddly enough you got used to being around others at the Townhouse. That noise was easier to handle better than every stupid little creek in the attic of your home or in the groaning of the old pipes. Or even the jiggling of your door knob. When you found your sleep last night you woke up slightly to some noise at the bottom. When you had sat up you swore someone was messing with s door knob. If it wasn’t for the fact you had pressed your table— “no,” saying it outloud to calm yourself. “There’s no way someone was outside trying to open the door.” It’s stupid, it’s preposterous, it’s, “definitely me being sleep deprived and hearing things.” There’s absolutely no way it was your front door being messed with.

Breakfast didn’t come around to being cooked solely for the fact that it took a bit to even get up and move. The sheriff didn’t come around and you’re sad to say that you had hoped he would. Instead, you decided to be knee deep in your garden to fix the mess that it’s been in. Cleaning the bloodied shed was your first priority. You needed at least two buckets and enough elbow grease to almost make you not want to garden. It’s not for the weak and sweat is drenching your shirt so badly that the fabrics second skin now. You’ve trashed the weeds and repotted what you could. Your gardens not nearly as good as it w—

“Hey, kid!”

Your back jerks straight up that you almost fall forward, “Frank, what the fuck?!” Yelling at the old man when you twist around. He’s leaning against your fence. If he was younger maybe he’d have hopped it. “When did you get here?” Why didn’t you hear him? Probably too focused on fixing up everything to really pay attention to anything else.

“I knocked on your fence when I got here but your head was in the clouds.” His shoulders shrug and he moves to get to the gate. Popping the little lock with ease and he swings it open as you stand up. Your knees thank you from the reprieve as you dust off your dirt grimed hands. “I thought you’d probably be back here.”

Eyes rolling into your skull. You can already hear him calling you a hermit. “You’re the one that agreed that it would be best for me to stay at my place for a week.” Your jail sentence isn’t over yet. “Besides, I needed to clean this place up.” It’s better than it was prior but your hard work has been flushed down the drain. You’ve saved what you could but you have maybe 10 or 15 percent of good plants. The rest has found its home in your compost bin. “Why are you here?” Asking the big question right away, he looks like he’s itching to talk about something.

He cocks a brow at your work and then back to you. “What happened to it? I thought you were taking pretty good care of it.” You never mentioned a garden to him that you can recall. “The lady before you mentioned a garden every now and then.” Blinking a little in response before nodding to him. Makes sense, the lady before you maybe also dealt with what you’re dealing with now. “Did someone come trashing it? If it was someone, you let me know who you think it could’ve been and I’ll speak with them.”

“No, no,” shaking your hands. “It’s fine, just doing some pruning. The green thumb doesn’t run in my genes unfortunately.” Saying your lie so fast that you didn’t even think about it. “I’d kill a cactus and those things are practically immortal.”

“Pft, you and me both.” His hands on his hips. It starts to settle in now. That worm of nervousness creeps around your ears when he sighs heavily. “I’ve caught some rumors.” His hand comes out when you start pacing around. “Hey, hey, it’s alright. They think you just had a fight with some of the Townies. Nothing serious being said.”

“But they’re talking.” Probably Jessica, well… you don’t really believe she would especially with Maria at her side. You seriously doubt it but… Avery? You both weren’t always eye to eye and you will admit you haven’t liked her since she tried to take your damn necklace. “What did they say? Like what was said exactly?”

Rubbing at his chin, “they said you got into an argument with Jess.” Kinda, “and that you were an asshole to Erin?” That’s a lie, “and something about glaring at a… what’s her name… Avery?” Sorta right. “Basically,” his hands are on his hips again, “rumors are going around that you were arguing about Jess over a lie in the group.” He then looks a little more serious, “and that lie was what caused you to leave suddenly after pushing Jessica.”

“Hey! She pushed me,” jabbing a thumb your way as you grumble. He snickers and you stop pacing to look at him. “But that’s it? Nothing about… you know?”

“Nope,” you take a breath. Maybe Erin got through to them after all. “I’ll keep an eye and ear out if anything’s being said. Also,” he smiles a little wider, “I’ve spoken with Jess and we are going to try and get the whole Town to have an afternoon get together pretty soon.”

“How soon?” Erin mentioned that Jess always helps with setting things up and doing the planning. Since you’re technically not able to leave until a couple more days you were kinda hoping it’s later in the month. “I’d like to be there. Oh, don’t look so shocked. Jesus, you make me out to be worse than what I actually am.” Feet shuffling about. You swear all he does is liken you to a hermit.

“Well butter my biscuit as you southerners say,” you’ve never wanted to commit elder abuse till now. “But yes, our get together is gonna be at the end of the month which is,” holding out the ‘S’ as he counts on his fingers. “Should be about ten days from now. More than enough time for you to be off house arrest, yeah?”

“Yeah,” nodding quietly as you do your own count on your fingers. Today's your third day, four more to go and then you’ll have something nice to look forward to. “Has uh…” rubbing the back of your neck, “has Erin come to you or talked to you?”

His lips form a tight line, “no. No one in the town has talked to me directly about you.” You sigh at that, “it’s good though. Less voices talking means a quicker and lesser stay.” His hand comes up to squeeze your shoulder, “this friend of yours will come around. I really gotta put better faces to names. I swear my memory is not as good as it used to be.” Frank’s hand moves from your shoulder to be back at his side. “You got anything to tell me though?”

He catches you off guard and visibly your shoulders tighten. “No,” saying it quickly even when you know that he knows. He’s not a fool nor blind. “Everything’s peachy.”

“Kid.”

He starts but you’re quick enough to get a word in before he gives you a speech. “I’m fine,” taking a step back, “I’m great actually.” A little on the sarcastic side but you do feel trapped sometimes in your house. Practically ostracized and forced to be stuffed in a cage and then hounded by monsters at night. “Real great.”

He’s not buying it at all and inwardly your groan. “You look like you haven’t been sleeping, didn’t even hear me walking up and why is there bloodied water in those buckets?” Pointing at the two pails of red water that you hadn’t thrown away. You didn’t trust what blood was being used and you planned on throwing it to the forest. “What aren’t you telling me?” He’s to perspective, of course he would’ve seen it without you even saying it.

“Nothing.”

“Sure as shit ain’t nothing.” Arms crossing tight and the edges on his forehead crease when he levels you with a hard look. “Tell me.” He's been around long enough, been a sheriff longer than most to know when something is being hidden. “I can’t help you properly if you won’t tell me.” He’s pushing for an answer and you can’t properly tell him what’s really going on.

“You already know!” Yelling now, mimicking his body movement as your own arms cross your chest. “You already know what’s fucking with me.”

“There’s still more to it and you know it.” Perceptive bastard.

“They— I? I can’t.” Quickly correcting yourself as your fingers tighten and your thumb rubs against the side of your index finger.

“Can’t or won’t?”

Refusing to look at him now. You can’t even pretend to be nonchalant with your lips trembling. Blame it on the sleep deprivation or the stress or maybe the hunger since you haven’t eaten since you’ve woken but. “I can’t,” he sighs when your words wobble. “I really can’t say Frank.” You’re afraid because what if he too leaves? What if you tell him and he looks at you like Jessica did? You want to tell him about Gaz but would he even believe it? “I don’t know enough to talk about it.” You need more time and more evidence before blabbing another friend away.

“Okay…” the breezy wind has become dry. Nothing swaying or moving about in the trees. It’s all a standstill like what’s happening between you too. “Okay,” he sighs, “I’m sorry, I know I said the other day that you don’t have to tell me. I just— Kid, I’m worried.” Gesturing to you, “you look tired and scared. I’d say it’s like everyone else but there’s something really scaring you. That radio at the diner?” Your eyes flicker to him immediately, “it’s… it’s been playing that Disney song over and over again. Debbie put it in storage with it completely unplugged but it’s still singing.”

Could all be coincidence but he continues, “it quiets down when your name is said and then it starts singing all over again.” You can’t believe what you’re hearing so you do what you’re good at and start walking away from him. “Hey!” He calls and walks after you, “listen, Debbie didn’t believe it either.” You don’t want to hear it. Your hands slam against your ears as you step in through the back door.

Why you? Why is it signaling you out? Why won’t they just leave you alone?

“She tried a lot of names before getting to yours. And when she got to yours she said it got quiet.” He’s doing a horrible job at damage control considering you’re back to pacing in your kitchen. Your hands have moved from your ears to scratch at your arm and over your chest. A nervous tic you had when you were a child that’s started resurfacing once more. “I didn’t believe her either,” he watches you carefully. “She asked me to come check it out today and I did. Debbie is telling the truth.”

“Is that why you’re worried?” Why wouldn’t he be? You’re blatantly marked and targeted now. Scratching at your arm a little more until it starts to sting and then you switch the arm to the other. You haven’t itched at yourself like this since your parents died. Your grandpa did his best to find ways to get you to stop itching as a child less you scratch yourself raw.

Frank takes a minor step toward you. “More than worried.”

Just as you go to say something.

Ringggg. Ringggg

The landline phone rings.

None of you make a move to even look its way. Both of you stare wide eyed at each other. Every ring makes Frank pale and sweat while you’re no better off. Your hands are clammy and your hearts almost out your throat by the time the phone dies down.

“H-How?” You start but the person on the other side calls again. “F-Frank?” You’re not crazy, both of you are hearing it but that landline hasn’t worked a single day since you came here. “No, no, wait,” he starts to walk towards it to answer but your pleading makes him wait. “I can d—“

“Not happening,” Frank is so firm in his words that it almost makes you flinch. He’s in front of the phone now, his fingers trail the curly beige wire before he grips the middle of the phone.

“Frank, don’t!” You say but he picks it up and holds it to his ear. There’s no breath that escapes you as it’s trapped in your mouth. Your whole body is frozen, not even your blood is moving as you watch Frank strain to listen for something. “Is there…” he holds a single finger up and you quiet down completely. Tentative steps are taken towards him but you hear nothing. You catch not a single word. “Maybe it’s a—“ your phone vibrates in your pant pocket.

The landline phone goes dead when you slowly but surely pull your buzzing phone out. It’s been useless this entire time save for some photo taking. You’ve tried texting and calling in the early days you settled in but there’s no service, none till right now. “I-I,” Unknown Caller, is on display as you swallow thickly. “How is this? This isn’t possible.” Frank puts away the landline phone and even the numbers under the display are blotchy and blurry. It’s hard to tell just what digit is first or second because it’s blurred over.

“Answer it.” Frank says quietly. His phone hasn’t worked a day ever since he became trapped here. No one else but you has received a call. “Kid, you have to answer it.”

“I can’t,” shaking now, the phone call ended but your caller tries again. “I can’t, I—“ gently Frank maneuvers your hand to press it closer to your ear and he slides the green call button over. Taking in a deep breath as you expected someone to immediately answer but to your shock you don’t hear anything. “I… I don’t think,” there’s a tiny little crackle before someone speaks on the other side. “H-Hello?” Coughing quietly before you find your strength. “Hello, who is this?”

“Tell the sheriff to leave or my men will be paying the townhouse a visit tonight.”

“What? What is it?” Frank is saying, he’s almost pressing to your side, “I can’t hear anything. Is someone speaking to you?”

“Tell him to leave, love.”

“I-I need you to leave.” Your phone is melded to your skin by how tightly you’re holding it.

“What’s wrong? I’m not hearing anything on it.” He’s right beside you, hell, he’s practically glued at your hip and he says he didn’t hear anything at all? “Let me see it,” he goes to grab but your surprised shout makes him recoil. “What’s wrong?” Asking gently now.

The words of warning replay in your mind that you scream out a, “leave!” Yelling at the man. “There’s nothing there on the phone and you’re bothering me. Just— Just go already!” You shove the phone into your pocket even with your stranger still on the line. “Leave, Frank. I’m serious.”

“What was said?” His voice tight and yet worried. “Why do you want me to leave so suddenly?” His hands start twitching like he wants to grab or hold something in them.

“I’m tired and hungry and I cannot deal with your old ass right now. The phone didn’t work anyways and I don’t want you touching my shit.” Trying to be as mean as you can. “Can you just give me a day to myself? I swear you and every fucking person has been down my neck since I got here. Just leave me alone right now, okay?!” You hope it’s enough to get him to leave, you doubt whoever is on the other line has hung up yet. It stabs you deep in the heart when Frank looks all shriveled, “I… I’m sorry, I just— I’m tired. I’m really tired.” There’s a small nod from him. There’s color back in his skin and he’s no longer as pale as he once was as he turns to leave without a goodbye.

The door shuts with a small slam. Your fingers shake as you reach back into your pocket. The caller didn’t hang up, you hate being right. Slowly placing it back to your ear. Waiting for a second before some noise is heard once more.

“It’s good to know you can listen when you have reason to.”

“W-Who,” coughing to clear your throat but your voice still waivers. “Who are you?” How did you get my phone number? Why is my phone working? Why did you want the sheriff to leave? So many questions like that and more run rampant through your mind. But most importantly, how did he know the sheriff was with you and how did he know that the man left.

You hear a faint chuckle from him, “I think you know. Gaz told me you can be clever.” He sounds strong, sounds older than the other two but not so old like Frank. His voice is gravely and rich but smooth in some of his vowels.

“I— you,” it’s either Mask or Bravo. The Captain will be speaking with you shortly. Those words ring about your ears and you blurt the name out. “Bravo? Are you… are you Bravo?”

There’s a slight heavy static noise on the other side before he speaks with a smile in his voice. “Yes.” The phone then hangs up suddenly leaving you alone in dead silence. Your knees buckle and you cave right down to the floor. The phone clatters out of your limp hand and jumps away from you. If there’s new cracks in the glass then you wouldn’t know at the moment or even care about it right now. You’re reeling too much in shock to notice anything, nor do you notice the vague shadow at your back door finally leaving.

[transhuman-priestess]

You guys do know you're supposed to reblog things, right

[transhuman-priestess]

"well i like this post but i'm worried my followers might not" fuck your followers. The entire point of tumblr is to cause irreparable psychic damage to your followers. We are locked in mortal combat on the astral plane. You must win. You Must Win. You Must Destroy Them.

[lialucis]

@laswells-ashtray you took this challenge fucking personally and I love it

[lologoinsolo]

Crying, screaming, throwing up!!!! I just received the creepiest (in a massive good way) for Soap from my In The Shadows series. It’s literally perfect and I got chills seeing it oh my godddddddddddddddddd

@rayven-dark-fire

Spectacular drawing, I would never open the door or window to him. I’m gonna go hide in my closet now.

[peachesofteal]

Raspberry Girl Part One + masterlist + AO3 Simon Riley/female reader CW: 18+ mdni, sexual content, dacryphilia, daddy kink. Reader is neurodivergent.

Simon Riley is a simple man. 

Now. 

Cobwebs cleared, shattered shards of glass painstakingly swept away, lacerations stitched and glued back together. He's climbed the mountain of his mind and descended down the other side. Hurdles cleared, skeletons dragged into the light and then cut down. 

Guess that's what happens when you finally decide you want to live, instead of exist. 

At least he figured it out before he died. 

He's old now, older, signature sore back and creaky knees worse then they were ten years ago, sciatica pain when it rains, headaches whenever he's spent too long looking at paperwork (should be wearing his glasses, but can only bring himself to do it at home.) He's even soft around the middle a bit. 

Still, there are some things that never change, some things that are amplified by time. Skill, focus, dedication. Thirst. 

The thirst is what keeps everyone in line, keeps everyone's head down after a salute, eyes shifty and hands clenched. He still strikes fear. He doesn't mind. 

It's how he got here. How he ended up standing in front of a team, his team, tackling a debrief. It's only given him more of what he know nows he craves, the aspect of control that was so long missing from his life, taken from him by others, by their actions, their decisions. Now he has it in spades. He learned to indulge it, practice it, hone it, and when it reared its head in other aspects of his life, he didn't shy away. He embraced it, experimented with it, figured out what he liked, what he didn't, what he truly needed. Chewed on it, for a while. 

A casual fuck here and there, fine, but not enough, not nearly. 

He's built a house after all. 

It's all spilled over though. Run away from him and out of the base, infiltrated his home, crawled across town- 

and set it's sights on something it can sink it's teeth into. Something it won't let go of. 

Daddy's girl. 

"C-captain Riley." Your hands press to your stomach, anxiously wiping away smatterings of batter and flour, and he tries to screw his mouth into a flat line to hide his smile at the hitch in your breath. 

"Hi sweetheart." 

"What can I... what can I get for you?" He sweeps over the case, eyeing the piled high pastries and bagels, muffins and quiches still warm. 

"Just a coffee today." You nod, lip tugged between your teeth, hand practically shaking as you reach for the stack of cups. When he was a younger man, he wouldn't have patience for this, or you. Wouldn't see the bright side to this, these moments he shares with his girl at the bakery, his nervous little fawn he's finally coaxed to look him in the eye for more than ten seconds at a time. Being in your forties will do that to you, he guesses. 

Time heals more than he ever thought possible. 

"Black?" 

"That's right." He indulges himself as you turn around, tracing your curves, the swell of your ass in your leggings. You wear an apron at your waist religiously, cinching it tight, hips and thighs and everything else perfectly framed. He loves those leggings, and hates them every time he catches an overzealous prick leering at you over the counter. 

"Do you um, do you want room for cream?"  The answer is always the same, but you still ask, and he doesn't mind. 

"No, I'll just take it as is." He eyes the pan of raspberry sweet rolls sitting on the counter, cream cheese icing slowly melting across the top. They're his favorite, but he's putting on too much weight, and with the next mission around the corner, he can't afford to be too soft. You look up at him shyly, gesturing to the giant buns. 

"I made your favorite." Fuck. He can't. He shouldn't... but he can't stomach the idea of dimming your glow, killing you excitement, the eager look on your face as you wait for his approval. 

"Y'know what... the boys are always complaining I never bring them anything. I'll take the whole pan." Your eyes turn to saucers. 

"The wh-whole pan? Really?" You brighten into a sun, glowing with pride, and he rewards you with a smile. 

"Is that okay?" 

"Of course!" You blurt, half panicked, "of course I just... okay. Let me-" You go to put the coffee cup down in front of him, but the bottom nicks the edge of the counter and like everything has turned to slow motion, he watches as steaming hot liquid comes flying from the top, half splashing, half spilling all over his uniform. He catches it before it rolls off the end, but the damage has been done, and tears line your lashes. 

The woman waiting in line a few feet behind him snorts. His vision turns red and he whirls on her with a glare, satisfied when the color drains from her face and she runs off. 

“I’m sorry, I’m so s-so-sorry,” you’ve come around the corner with paper towels, trembling like a leaf as you stare at the stain on his jacket, wide eyed and frantic. 

“It’s okay, it was an accident.” 

“N-no, your uniform,” you croak horrified, “I ruined it, I’m so sorry.” You hiccup a little, trying to suck in some air while you succumb to panic, and he takes your hands in his, squeezing gently, trying to ground you. 

“It’s alright baby, it’s okay,” you don’t even notice when he calls you baby, too preoccupied by your rapidly dissipating oxygen. “Hey, look at me,” he soothes, ducking into your line of sight, grabbing your attention. “Good girl, you’re alright.” 

“I’m sorry.” You whisper, shrinking in on yourself, curling your shoulders forward. More tears, and the sight of them sends blood rushing through his body, uncomfortable pressure starting to build in his cock. 

“Nothin’ to be sorry about.” The shop is mostly empty, the woman behind him gone, and he takes the opportunity to usher you past the counter and into the kitchen where there’s a stool waiting just inside the door. He guides you up and holds steady. “Everything’s okay, I promise.” The paper towels come free from your tension filled grip, and instead of using them on the stain, he presses them to your wet cheeks, blotting away your tears. You lean into the touch, so trusting, so easily his, and he wonders what else you’d let him do. He’s hard against the teeth of his zipper as he thinks about hoisting you onto the table, spreading your legs to find what you’ve been keeping safe for him there. 

He doesn’t have many things to care for these days, outside the team, his ultimate responsibility. Keeping a special ops unit alive, planning and executing, cutting through political bullshit is more than enough, but it’s all rough and heavy handed. 

He needs something to nurture. 

You blink at him as he finishes and tips your chin back, ignoring the way your lips part in awe. “That’s better.” 

“Thank you.” The two of you breathe in tandem, silenced and walking a tightrope until you cough. “I should uh… I should go, get those rolls packaged?” He nods, and you manage a very small smile before dipping your gaze to the ground and running off to the front. 

“When did you know?” He rolls the cigar smoke around in his mouth and John cocks his head. 

“When did I know what?” 

“That you were ready,” he gestures to the house, where John’s wife Grace sleeps soundly, “for this? For her?” There’s a glint in his Captain’s blue eyes, a knowing smirk on his face. 

“I just did. At some point, life becomes more than the job, but the mission stays the same. Lead, decide, control. Keep them safe, complete your objective, give what’s needed, get it for yourself. It’s no different.” The idea is tar, sticking to every surface in his mind, gumming up his synapses and creating hallucinations so intoxicating they’re hard to believe. 

You, curled up in bed asleep with nothing but a pair of panties, or cradled between his knees in the bath as he works a chunk of batter free from your hair. You with your legs spread, knees pushed towards your ears, pussy ripe and waiting for him, only him, for the rest of his life. Hands and ankles tied together like a pretty little present. You, sitting on the couch with your thighs slung over his lap, nose creased with a little wrinkle as you thumb through a book. 

John chuckles. “Found one then?” 

Simon only nods. 

He slips through the door just before closing, little bell at the top announcing his arrival to an almost empty space. There’s someone at the register, counting cash, and she smiles at him with all her teeth. 

“We’re about to close but there are a few things left, or I could make you a tea?” The case is pretty barren, a few bear claws and croissants, a muffin or two. Stragglers. 

Next to it, a bouquet sits in a vase. They’re fresh, healthy, and the hair on the back of his neck stands. 

If someone is buying you flowers, he’ll kill them. Dump their corpse in a pit and piss on it. 

The girl clears her throat, and he shakes his head. “No, but thanks. ‘M here to see…” you push through the kitchen doors with two metal sheet trays in your hands, and freeze.

He knew you’d be surprised, caught off guard. It’s like catching a feral cat. Trying to earn a street dog’s trust. Like he’s crouched on the sidewalk, hand extended, food waiting in his fingertips. 

A fisherman, with bait on the line, patiently waiting to hook his prize. 

The incident last week has thoroughly spooked you, pushed you back inside your shell, eroded a lot of the groundwork he painstakingly laid, the foundation he’s been building, and the only time he’s been in since then, you ran into the kitchen as soon as he crossed the threshold. 

The clock has turned back to the time when you were so gun shy, you’d turn to stone at the first sight of him, hands clasped together so tight he knew they hurt. 

It’s no matter. He’s a patient man now, a far cry from who he used to be, and he’s willing to wait for the things worth it, willing to put in the work to fix it.

His body disagrees. A river of need runs consistently runs through him, wild and turbulent current thrashing in his blood, white water rapids trying to flood his lungs. His cock is heavy at night as he imagines you bent over the butcher’s block, leggings ripped open, gooseflesh cascading from the small of your back down, empty little hole clenching on nothing, begging for a fullness only he can give. He dreams about your tears, salty sweet drops soaking your cheeks as the crown of his cock bulges in your throat, as he takes your air and gives it back, over and over again. 

Ruin you, rearrange you, remold you until you only ever fit him. 

He’ll give you what you need, he’ll take away what you don’t. 

He’ll decide. 

The girl at the counter looks at you, then him, small smile pulling on her lips. “I’m going to get this deposit ready,” she announces to no one since you’re not paying her any attention, barely registering she’s disappeared as you stare at him. 

“Hi… u-um hi, Captain Riley.” You put the pans down onto the counter but miscalculate the distance, and they clatter with a resounding smack, one that makes you wince. Your chest expands with a long, deep breath, and you look away from him to the floor. “Can I get you something?” 

“No, I’m jus’ here to see you.” You jerk, gaze snapping from the floor to his face. 

“Is th-this about your uniform? Did you get it dry-cleaned? I can pay you back for-” You rush out, half panicked and cut off when his hand fits to the space between your shoulder blades with just enough pressure to move you forward. He leads, steering you to one of the little tables by the window, urging you down into the chair before taking his place on the other side. 

“You’re not paying my bloody dry cleaning bill. I’m here to see you, sweetheart.” You’re vibrating, practically rattling in your skin and he wants so badly to soothe you, tuck you into his chest and push the outside world away, but it would be too much, too soon. You’re not ready. 

“See me?” He nods. 

“Why did you run from me the other day?” 

“I didn’t I was just… I was busy.” He didn't expect the truth, not right away. You're always trying to hide your vulnerable spots. 

“Try again. No lying this time.” There’s about one eighth of his usual authority in his voice, the captain’s edge he’s honed over the years, and your lips part with a sharp, small intake of breath. 

“I thought maybe… I thought you might be upset or something and I didn’t want…” you trail off with a shrug, and he’s not surprised. He knows his reassurances from last week weren’t enough. His sweet girl is afraid of her own shadow, you need more than just a few words and your tears wiped. 

“I’m not upset.” He leans back against the rickety wood. There are a million things he could say, do. A million different pieces he could pick apart right here, right now, peel your layers back and put you on your knees with your cheek on his thigh, his hand patting the top of your head. 

“Daddy’s not mad, sweetheart.” 

You’re watching him, waiting, looking for him to give more, heal this wound, but he’s cautious. A gas pedal to the floor will only get him the kind of chase he doesn’t want. Not yet. “You understand me?” 

“Yes,” you whisper sheepishly. You’re hesitating on something, holding back, but he doesn’t try to drag it out, choosing to wait, to give you the time you need, the space he knows the rest of the world doesn’t allow. “Did um… did they like them?” He cocks his head. 

“The team?” 

“Mhm,” your leg bounces under the table. You’re so fucking cute he could smother you. 

“Yeah baby, they loved them.” You beam, blooming into a pretty, perfect flower, vibrant and colorful, rare as they come. 

“That’s good, I’m so happy.” You wiggle a little bit in the chair, and he bites the inside of his cheek. Fucking hell. He wants you on his lap instead, wiggling around as he slowly sinks you down onto his cock, fingernails biting into his chest as he stretches your pussy, toes curling as you struggle to take him. “D-do you want to take some home?” 

“You have some left over?” You shrug sheepishly. 

“I’ve uh, been making them every day. I thought if you were mad at me, maybe they would… make it better.” Oh baby.

“No. You never have to appease me like that. You never have to appease anyone like that, sweetheart.” 

“Right. Okay.” You look relieved, a little bit of heaviness lifted from your shoulders, and then you give him a small smile. “But do you want to maybe have one… now? W-with me?” His sweet little fawn, navigating the world on new trembling legs, taking chances when she feels brave. 

He pulls your hand into his and strokes his thumb back and forth across your knuckles, setting up a slow, soothing rhythm. “Of course.” 

[ilium-ilia]

As Your Skin Gives; masterlist

ghoap x fem!reader | pet!au | read on ao3 | pinterest board

Simon Riley has an unruly pet. In order to keep the mutt entertained while he's at work, he decides to give him a mate to keep him company. Unfortunately, that mate is you.

a/n: this story was previously known as "touch me 'til i vomit (pet!au)" and is a reworked version of that. read the warnings on each chapter. this is not your tiktok dark romance. this is not a stockholm syndrome story. this is not an omegaverse fic, or a hybrid human story. this is a horror story. if that is not for you, do not read. i am being so fucking for real when i say this is a horror story.

Chapter One Chapter Two Chapter Three Chapter Four Chapter Five

follow @mother-ilia to be notified of updates | get early access to chapters here (tentative of patreon tos)

[lologoinsolo]

In The Shadows

Chapter 4, Chapter 5

In The Shadows Masterlist

TW: Soap is being a creep towards Reader in here, mentions of body dismemberment, body horror(?) At least I consider it body horror, anxiety, fear, tell me if I missed any!! finally managed a 4k fic for once

You’re angrily pacing the living room by the time you hear that familiar ringing of the sheriff's bell. Eyes brimming with mixed emotions when you think about your garden or Jessica or Erin or your grandfather. “Won’t run from this.” You say it over and over again like a mantra. Doing whatever it takes to prepare yourself as you run through your nightly rituals to calm your beating heart. You chugged your tea down without even putting any sweeteners. Checked all your locks but this time you didn’t barricade your doors. You’re tempted to stay downstairs but you want to see him face to face. The boarded windows in the living room would’ve been taken off had you found a hammer in time.

Adrenaline starts pumping in your veins when the sun is truly set and night has made its way up. You stand from your recliner and place your mug on the coffee table. You wait and wait till you hear the faintest groan of the old wood on your porch and the pound of a singular knock before you make your move. “Come upstairs, asshole!” You shout against your door and bang on it yourself. Taking off to run upstairs to wait for him to come to your window.

You know he’ll come, he has to from that sharp, cackle of a sound he makes. Oh how he mocks you when you hear a loud snap against the wood of your door. The runed rock above it holds firm even as the walls shake. It makes you sick to your stomach when a thrill runs up your spine, blood pumping faster now. Your feet slammed against the stairs until your toes landed on the old, brown carpet. You twist your heel around in the fibers, digging it in in an effort to ground yourself for what you’re about to do. You wish you had some liquor to drink or something to take the edge off but you want to be focused for this. You need to be focused for this.

You stand at your room’s door and wait, the thing outside seems far too patient despite what was done to your garden. Still though, you’ve yet to take a step in. You want to know for sure he’ll come up before you start acting a fool. You’re tempted to open the damn window but you’re not that fucking stupid. Breathing in once and then twice and finally a shadow of a man starts to bleed over your curtains. You can make out the shape of his head and the width of his shoulders. Your teeth shake when his shadow bends and his shoulder jumps just the slightest.

Tap. Tap. Tapppp.

He taps again and again, not yet banging nor even speaking to you. You take a second in steeling yourself even with your hands begin to shake. “By the balls.” You murmur your grandpa’s words of courage and you take a step in, walking quickly almost in time with your visitors tapping.

You throw your chair that you’ve kept by that window to the side and shove the curtains all the way back and to the side. You glare at Mohawk’s waiting face, he’s crouched as he was before the first time you saw him. A staring contest forms between the two of you, you won’t look away from him. Choosing to stare at him as much as he does you. Maybe you would’ve flipped him off had your hands not been so badly tightened around the curtains fabric.

“Fuck you.”

You sneer out and he just smiles wide when you speak to him finally. Just like he wanted from the beginning of this mess. The hand he used to tap moves to push the strands of his mohawk down.

“Ooch hen, yer really hurtin’ ma feelins.” He even pats over his chest. The horrible bastard he is, he just leans his forehead against the glass like he did the first time he saw you. “I ken ye’d sound pretty but ye sound divine when yer angry.” He makes a delighted sound, happy with himself at getting what he wanted in the end.

Your nostrils flare and your hand leaves the curtain to grip against the windowsill. “You’re a piece of shit you know that?” Taking a page out of Jess’s book and nose diving into cussing him out. You expected him to glare or even look upset, maybe even annoyed but he just laughs patronizingly. Tilting his head and the window pane squeaks against his skin.

There’s a twinkle in his sky blue eyes. “Yer that upset?” He asks, shaking his head like a parent does an angry toddler. As if he didn’t ruin something good, as if he didn’t leave blood everywhere. “Did I scare ye?”

“Yeah, I’m upset.” Refusing to answer his last question. Your other hand settles on your hip. Both curtains now are free to fall down besides the window’s frame. It sways, the movement slow and you notice his eyes flicker to its motion before coming back to you. It looks like you won the contest for now. “I worked hard on that garden and you and your stupid friends ruined it.” You can tell that the way you’re acting is pinching a nerve of his.

“Careful,” his brows twitch, “I like ye angry but I only like it so much.” The playfulness in his voice falls ever the slightest.

There’s a threat woven into his words. An underlying warning to quit while you’re ahead. You know it’s there but you’re too angry to stop yourself. Blood’s pumping in your ears and your good thought is overruled by your anger. “Or what?” Nearly pressing against the window just to get as in his face as the glass will allow. “You’ll kill me?” Scoffing now and his eyes open wider like you just flipped a switch in him. That little, well meaning voice in the back of your head tells you to shut up, to turn from him but you press on. “You can’t do anything to me. Come on, do something.” Antagonizing him as you sway side to side.

The way he watches you now is like a cat does its bird. He enjoys how you posture and squawk at him from inside your little cage. Your boldness is enduring but very misplaced. “Step outside.” His tone shifts, a chill settles in the room as he nods outwardly. His shoulders square tight as those veins in his arms bulged. His eyes seem endless now, a blue so vast like the dark abyss of the ocean that sucks you under. “Go on, lass.” Encouraging and even leaning back as he taps at the window expectantly. “Come outside and say that to my face.” His accent rougher, deeper in his drawl as his hands looks longer than it did prior. “I’ll show ye what I can do.”

Your brows pinch, trying to keep the shudder that threatens to break out. “I don’t have to do shit.” It’s your turn to look away from his face now. Taking note of the changes happening right in front of you. His skin looks like it’s stretching, trying to keep something that threatens to tear out. As if holding himself back from slamming into the glass.

The rock will hold… it has to.

The edges of his mouth pull up wider. Watching how quickly your tunes changing, “afraid now, are ye?” He clicks his tongue disappointingly. His nail scratches against the window making jagged, little lines on the glass. “Thought ye were so big and bad, aye?” Rolling his tongue over his lips. “That pretty mouth of yers will get ye in trouble with Bravo. He doesn’t like when soft things try to act tough.”

That’s three names he’s mentioned since he’s spoken to you. Ghost, Gaz and Bravo. You cling to that, needling it into your brain. You need to keep your wits about you, maybe you can get him to talk more. Choosing to stay quiet for the moment, sweat forming on your brow.

He simmers in the silence that befalls the room. The skin starts to shift, no longer thinning as it did before. “I guess, it’s a good thing he’s not here? Wouldnae do ye any good to mouth off to ‘im.” While he looks calm there’s still a quiet danger to him as he speaks about this Bravo. He sounds almost hopeful that you’ll piss off whoever that is. Maybe this Bravo is the one you call Mask? He is the one that frightens you the most after all.

Whoever it is, you’ll deal with him just the same as you’ll deal with Mohawk. Besides, there’s nothing he or his group can physically do as long as you stay in the house. That momentary lapse of fear does once you remember that. Sticking your finger up and you tap at him as you speak. “I don’t give a damn about who this Bravo is.” Dragging your finger down to trace the lines he made, “I don’t give a damn about you or whatever threats you spout my way.” It’s your turn to lean against the glass now. Your eyes are burning defiantly as you refuse to blink or look away from him. “I’m trapped in here, yeah, but there ain’t nothing.” Spitting your words out next, “nothing that you can do to me.” Leaning back once you got your point across, “got anything else to threaten me with or is that all?”

Arms crossed as there’s a smug look to you now. Mentally playing this off as a checkmate in your book. You do start preparing for him to look as he did before but… he doesn’t. He doesn’t even laugh or try to look as patronizing as he did prior. The smallest bit of worry starts to bubble in your chest as he eyes you up and down slowly. He looks giddy at how you responded to him. Happy from the looks of it with that sharp attitude of yours even. Maybe this is what he was after but it makes you uneasy nonetheless.

He finally speaks after he listens to your little rant, it’s cute. “Somethin’ can be done to those wee friends of yers though.” He sings mockingly as his lips pull back into a devilish grin. Watching you stiffen up makes him groan. A rope tightens around those wings of yours, just waiting to get clipped. “Gaz’s been sweet talking a stupid little rabbit in that townhouse. He likes to play with his sweethearts, ye ken?” He watches in rapt attention as that smug look of yours switches to pure terror. “Gaz likes how they taste when they’re in love with him.” He rubs almost thoughtfully on his chin as he thinks about the numerous ‘lovers’ that Gaz has fooled over the years. “Would be a shame for yer friends to die because a lovesick darling opened the door, hmm?”

Your blood runs cold, your hands are clamming up and your knees wobble as he speaks so placidly about what his friend can do. “Y-You,” your words faltering, the strength you had is sapped from you, “you can’t. There’s no—“ Erin isn’t stupid, there’s no way that she or any of them would talk to those monsters. “You can’t—“

“Oh, I cannae dae that but pretty boy Gaz can.” He hasn’t stopped staring you down, hell you haven’t even seen him intake any air. “I can speed up his process though. That poor stupid ‘lover’ of his is so willing and wanting. Desperate little things. Now, that’s how I like’em.” Licking his lips, “they’re bones taste better.” He takes a mock bite of air and you visibly flinch.

Your stomach lurches to your throat while your heart drops from your chest. You feel bile running upwards at a rapid pace as your world starts to spin. You take a step back. Sweat forms on your brows and you feel like you can’t breathe properly. “No…. No, no, no,” your hand rubs against your chest. Trying to keep yourself from spiraling at the thought. Who is Gaz talking to? Gaz has to be Smiles, right? It has to be him!

The one in front of you though enjoys the show he’s watching, your spiel of anxiety is just too good. Sends a rush through him. “Shh, shh, it’s alright.” He coos mockingly as he takes in a big, exaggerated sniff. “Can smell ye, ye ken? Keep acting like that and ye’ll really get me going.” His hand moves down unabashedly to his crotch. You can’t see it due to how he’s crouched on your roof but you know he’s palming himself, getting off on how you’re about seconds away from a full blown panic attack. “Ye gonna be nice or dae I need tae cut our convo short. M’sure Gaz is just dying to eat. He’s been complaining about our recent meals, says they’re not sweet ‘nough for ‘im.” He laughs loudly, “Ghost acts like he isnae starvin’ but I ken he is, might get a nice meal out of one or two of the townhouse people. All packed in like sardines.” His mouth waters at the thought of all the people in there. Hungering for something warm to settle in his belly that’s not animal.

Shutting your eyes tight as you focus on what you can right now. Focusing mainly on what you can control right here at this very moment. If you play your cards right then maybe you can give Erin another day. Your hand rubs over your chest in slow circles, fingers spreading as the beat of your heart pounds against your palm. He’s patient as he watches you drag yourself just seconds away from a panic attack. It does make him sad that he won’t get to enjoy it longer.

You slowly open your eyes to find he hasn’t looked away from you. There’s an expectation in his eyes as you speak. “I’ll… I’ll be good,” you murmur. Your voice is as steady as you can get it. His hand moves to clap only once suddenly and it causes your shoulders to tense from the sharp noise. “I’m…” you swallow thickly, “I’m sorry for how I’ve acted too.” Adding that in for good measure.

He chuckles deeply. “Thata girl, I ken ye have manners,” he praises and his lips haven’t fallen just yet. “Now,” placing both of his hands on the window once more. “Sit,” nodding to your chair that you had shoved back in your haste to yell at him earlier. “We’ve got a lot of things tae talk about and not nearly enough time, yeah?” He looks at his wrist but there’s no watch attached, even if it was, you doubt his would work. “Got a good couple hours that I can work with.”

You stumble in grabbing the chair, picking it back up and sitting on it when he gives an approving noise. The chair creaks and groans under you and you try to get as comfortable as you can be with how he observes you. You swallow, forcing yourself to keep your voice from hitching or stammering. “What do you want to talk about?”

He grins broadly, kneeling instead of crouching when he looks a little shorter. Probably tired of having to crouch for so long. Humming a familiar tune as he thinks it over. He thought it would’ve taken a bit more convincing but he’ll settle for this. “Yer the talk of the group ye ken?” You don’t like knowing that, you don’t like that one bit. “Ye’ve any idea the kinda thrill I got when I noticed a pretty, plump bird was watchin’ me?” He looks damn near ecstatic, buzzing like a bee. “I wanted to keep your attention always on me. I ken ye were watching the other so I had to get bigger and better in my art shows. Did ye like’em?”

Like them? Art shows? You think to yourself, brows tight as you don’t understand what this art show could be before it clicks. The times when the bodies were found, the red on the walls. He— he did that? He did it for you?

Your stomach twists and knots, bunching up as you squirm in your seat. Your fingers dig into your thighs to ground yourself, focusing on the minor pain of your nails. “W-Why?” You shake still even as you try desperately to not give into the ever increasing panic. Before you can filter your response you speak, “why would I?” You’re completely taken aback that he’d think that you would. “Why would I like that?”

“Ah, ye didnae like it after all?” He looks hurt, almost saddened and maybe you’d feel guilty if it wasn’t for the fact that he dismembered those bodies. Brutally killing and tearing into their skin like butter. You helped clean up those people and you couldn’t get the tremors out of your hands for days without feeling the cold of their skin. Couldn’t get the smell of blood out your nose either. “No one appreciates art these days.” His eyes rolling as he just smirks at how visibly distraught you look. “I took my time makin’ it all look good and ye didnae even like it.” He grumbles and mutters words under his breath that you can’t make out.

Your lips part to speak and he perks up. “Why?” Asking once more, as awful as you think it. Did he even eat… or did he just do it just because he could? He takes in a long, exaggerated sniff once more. He’s smelling you once more, his pupils dilating. “Why did you do that? What do you even gain from it?”

“Why would I dae tha’?” Talking down to you, his hand rubbing under the stubble of his chin. “Aw, my bonnie girl,” Giving the illusion of actually caring with how you're swimming in guilt. He sighs, pretending it pains him but in the end it doesn’t and you know that it doesn’t. “Cause I ken ye’d write about it, hen.” His reasoning for his carnage. “Ye seemed so observant the day after and I wanted to keep yer eyes on me.” His shoulder shrugs, it’s so simple for him. So easy as if his decisions were between Mayo or no Mayo, mustard or no mustard. Arm here or leg there.

He tilts his head and scratches at his chin. “There’s little fun to be done ‘round here. What else am I supposed tae dae?” He snorts, “garden?” Eyes squinting at you a childish grin on his face. Your lips purse, a tight line forms as you can’t hide how you’re feeling. “Ye donnae like that, hm?” There’s just a sliver of silence before he laughs, “yer not good at pretending, I like yer little looks. Wonder how ye’ll look at me when yer under me beggi—“

“That’ll never happen,” your hands ball against your knees while you whisper under your breath. The lights of his blue eyes electrify at your shaky defiance. Despite how scared you are you still hold a promise to yourself that you’ll go out your own way on your own time.

There’s a knowing look in his eyes that you can’t quite understand. “We’ll see, hen, we’ll see.” He speaks as if the games already been called and you the loser and the prize simultaneously.

“Are we…” You swallow, “are we done?” There’s no signs of tiredness on him but you are growing tired. You don’t know how long you can keep him for.

“No.” His voice shines firm when he presses his forehead against the glass before he relaxes once more. “Not yet… What's yer name?” You bite your lip quickly from blabbing that information away. You’ll give a name to anyone else in town but him? “I’ll tell ye mine if ye tell me yers?” A trade, an offer that sounds good yet conniving. A trap in the making but… learning his name could be good for you. Probably, anyways…

You tell him just your first name, not giving him a middle or a last. You’re tempted to give him your nickname but something tells you that he’ll sniff out a lie. Something dark swirls in his eyes as he tries out your name. The hairs on your neck stand up as he sounds it out with the roll of his tongue, shaping the vowels in his mouth. He smiles brightly when you ask for his name quietly.

“My names Soap.”

“Soap?” You blink. Blink twice and thrice more when he doesn’t make a move to correct it or jest about pulling your leg. “Are you— Are you serious?” Astounded and confused, there’s no way his name is actually Soap.

“I asked for a name, I didnae say ye had to give me yer real name now did I?”

Your head falls to look at your hands that squeeze over your knees. “The fuck kinda name is Soap?” Speaking under your breath as wordlessly as you can but he catches on quickly.

“Watch yerself, hen.” He tuts disapprovingly, “an here I thought ye were doin’ so well. Ye want me to leave?” He gets into a crouch, just seconds from pushing all the way up to stand at his full height. “M’sure Gaz is ‘round here somewhere.” Musing thoughtfully when those eyes of yours pop.

“No!” Standing up and getting close to the window, “no, I’m sorry. I’m sorry, I’m just tired and I,” stumbling over a quick apology, “I just thought you would’ve—“ he smiles deviously at how desperate you are to keep him from leaving and you wish you could gnaw your foot off when you stop yourself. This is what he wants after all, to keep you hanging off by a threat. Holding you over a cliff it so he can watch you beg and plead.

“S’alright, ye are tired, huh?” He quirks a brow and you nod rapidly. Sitting back down slowly and he watches with intense focus as you bend and sit. Eyeing how your body conforms and dips in the seat. The fat of your thighs spreading and seeping out from under the armrests, “pretty.” The moon hangs overhead now, light seeping into your dark room and illuminating your living space. He looks around before coming back to you. “A little bare in here, should decorate some more don’cha think?”

You tilt back to look around and it is rather empty but it’s not like there’s many stores around. Could hardly do a DIY considering materials are spread thin as is in town. “Don’t have many things to put up in here.” Murmuring quietly to no one in particular. He jumps around so quickly, going from happy to serious to threatening and then acting like nothing’s happening at all. You can’t seem to navigate him, “not many stores…”

“Poor thing.” He pouts, “trapped in a cage and nothing to do to make it better.”

Your jaw clenched tight, “yeah,” gritting it out as softly as you can. You don’t know if he or the others are the reason as to why you’re trapped. You don’t know if they’re not the reason. It’s all happenstance and rotten luck that you saw that damn tree. “I guess.”

“Guess?” There’s that laughter again, a shit eating grin on his face. What else are you to say to him? “If ye ever need somethin’ to do,” his head turns to the side. Rolling his shoulder, “ye can always open the door and let me in.”

“I uh— why?”

“So I can help, silly.” A tell tale predatory look in his eyes blooms. It unsettles you, prey instinct makes you want to get up and run when face to face with the apex predator waiting outside your window. “Ye donnae want my help?” There’s an uncanny slowness to the way his smile widens to his ears, eyes darkening like the night's blue.

Shivering slightly, a chill runs up your spine. The hairs on the back of your neck stand completely up. Did you offend him or is this another way to play with your fear? Your back tenses and prickles as if unseen fingers are touching your back. It’s nails dragging against your spine and trails up till it claws at the back of your neck. “No… I’m good, I’m fine.” Looking away from him and it makes you feel worse, this feeling that’s weighing you down is oppressive at best and frightening at worst. “Thank you… though.” You say just as quickly, your fingers balling as you keep yourself seated straight.

“S’alright,” a smile can say a thousand words and yet all his says is danger, run away. “It’s gettin’ late,” he sighs long suffering like, “I’ll see you tomorrow.” It’s not a question but a fact.

“T-Tomorrow?”

“Aye,” licking his lips as the unsettling look of him reverts to his ‘normal’ stage once more, “unless ye got other plans, bonnie.” His brow raises, “gonna go for a walk in the woods?” Your tongue presses hard against the roof of your mouth, shaking your head no. You haven’t stepped near it since he stuck his hand out to wave at you. He clicks his tongue in satisfaction, “then it’s settled. I’ll see ye tomorrow night.” He stands promptly and you remain cemented in place. He taps gently against the window, “be good. Doon talk to stranger, ye ken?” Winking at you as he turns on his heel.

“Wait!” You call for him as he takes his steps on the shelf. He turns slow like and crouches to look at you. “You won’t,” your hands clench, “you won’t talk to Gaz, right?”

Grinning at you. “Goodnight, hen.” Standing once more as he leaves. Dropping off your roof, you stand up on weak knees. Watching him leave, hoping he doesn’t head anywhere near the Townhouse but all he does is disappear into the woods. You look around, worry forces you to try and see where the other three. Beard is near the police station once more but he’s also heading towards the wood. Smiles and Mask are nowhere to be seen.

You stay up the entire night. Unable to find your sleep even when you hear the mourning doves cooing outside. Your head turns on your pillow as you peer out, you didn’t shut your curtains. You wanted to watch just in case if there was a change but you notice something. There’s dark clouds brewing overhead. Rain’s coming earlier than usual and with it brings an unease in the pit of your belly.

[goatgoesmbe-deactivated20250814]

short continuation of older!reader x Price age gap tw : smut, mommy kink, PiV, overstimulation

When people think about dating someone older, they would probably imagine something elegant and old-school, a candle lit dinner or a simple picnic by the lake

What they didn't know is that, older people didn't beat around the bush and would jump in head first because they already knew so well what they wanted in a relationship thanks to their experience, there was barely any need to explore and experiment

John Price was ashamed to say that he was previously one of those people. Because, if only he knew about that, he wouldn't make such an embarrassing sound, wouldn't be surprised when you pushed him onto your bed before climbing on top of him

He remembered the flirting started fairly innocent. You cooed and thought that it was cute of him to be interested in an older woman like you. You leaned closer to him as you teased about the two decades age gap between you two, in which he replied that he didn't care. You were vibrant and beautiful, charming and kind, and still so full of life, he was attracted to you because of it and more

So.. he didn't expect your sweet self to change

"Oh baby.. so good for me, my pretty boy.." you purred as you rode his cock in a way that made his eyes rolled back in his head. He whimpered, still taken aback with your change of personality

You were oozing with confidence, being older had earned you the art of not giving a shit to any insecurities you had. And you showed him what being truly experienced was like

Now, John wouldn't call himself inexperienced, nor young, he knew this

But he was pretty confident himself

Maybe he wasn't as experienced. But he got strength and stamina

So when you stopped bouncing on top of him after another orgasm, he took over. While you laid your face on his hairy chest, his rough hands gripped your hips before he bucked his own as he forced you to keep moving

Using you like a mere cocksleeve

And you'd whine, clinging onto his shoulders as you drooled, too tired and overstimulated to keep up with his comparably youthful stamina and libido

"Come on mommy, i could still go on, didn't you say you wanted to teach me a thing or two about fucking properly?" His gruff voice sent a vibration down your spine, and you embarrassingly clenched as you came again-- so quick even though you said you had none in you left

Though, he didn't stop

"That's it mommy.. come on, one more?" He purred, smirking when he heard you sob. "Yeah.. give your pretty boy another"

You really should've thought twice if you thought you could handle a man at his prime like him

..

And if you two weren't too focused on each other, you'd be able to hear the front door slamming to a shut as Gaz had enough of these damn thin walls

[lologoinsolo]

Oh my godddddddddddddddd

[lologoinsolo]

Minds Us All

Wear a different pair, do something out of step now. Throw a stranger an unexpected smile. You say too late to start got your heart in a headlock. I don’t believe any of it…

You’re haunted by visions and memories that were never your own. Faces of men, woman, and children all spur through your mind like cruel kaleidoscopes. It fractures— bends and twists, cracks your fragile mind that then splinter off to create spirals of words. Some you understand, some you don’t. It warps your reality, creates loops that are hard to escape. A maze in your own mind. Where has your mind gone this time? What are you seeing now? Will it break you this time?

Possible 141 X Fem!Reader or Fem!Reader & 141

This series can go dark. I consider it a horror of the mind. Tags will be written appropriately and if I miss any, tell me.

Inspired entirely by Headlock by Imogen.

Pictures used are for aesthetic ONLY. They are not meant to allude to what Reader looks like!

Part 1 | Sunshine. Tunnel. The tunnel— don’t— don’t go down!

Part 2 | Gas. Gas, floor, dresser. Floor. Needle.

Part 3 | Lights. Christmas lights. Blood. Gun.

Part 4 | TBC

Main Masterlist

…you’ve been walking. You’ve been hiding and you look half dead half the time… You still got it… You know you’re better than this.