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Genre/Warnings: Price x gn!reader, choking, blowjob, dubcon, humiliation, slight degrading, dom!price x sub!reader, voyeuristic, imagine, he's kind of an asshole lol
John Price is a cocky bastard...
It was bad enough with how often he teased you during meetings, and training, never caring about the humiliation he caused you in front of the team. So, it was no surprise now how he sat leaned back in his chair without a worry in the world.
His nonchalant attitude pissed you off, but you still obliged his orders, rolling your eyes even as his girthy cock bulged in your throat.
His amused huff made your brows knit tighter. What a prick. You wanted to tell him that, to argue against his insistence to suck him off right here in the middle of his office, the door propped open with a rubber stop, and blinds drawn... all because you were a couple minutes late for early morning PT.
But you sucked it up (no pun intended) and continued anyway, just trying to get him off fast before anyone walked by or Gods forbid came in. (pun intended 😏)
This at least was better than the alternative.
If you hadn't agreed to drop to your knees and settle between his muscular thighs, you were certain he'd have dragged you out into the hall and stripped you right there.
Just as you began to pull back, a strong hand gripped the crown of your head and forced you forward. The shock made you choke, struggling to swallow the thick strings coating your throat. Your lungs burned as you fought for air.
He held you there for a few moments, a satisfied hum vibrating through him, before finally pushing you away.
"Pathetic," He grumbled.
"Get yourself cleaned up. And next time... be on time."
(18+. this is the baby trapping fic. smut, tampering of protection, the whole deal. but for once, it ain't simon doing it. what a swell guy.)
It began as an idea so small you could pretend it wasn't one.
A kind of thing you tuck into the back of your mind, harmless as a wishbone: how much easier it would be if Simon just stayed. If his duffel bag found a permanent home in your closet instead of his truck. If the faint trace of tobacco and the clean bite of his soap clinging to his shirts clung to your clothes and sheets all the time, instead of in fleeting, concentrated bursts.
He never stays past dawn. His boots by your door, scuffed and dust-laced. His grey jacket draped over the back of a chair, heavy with the smell of him. The warmth of his body in your sheets vanishes with the light. He never sleeps on his stomach, never leaves his toothbrush, never once says where he was going or when he'll come back. But the nights were a different story. His body filled your bed, your lungs, your world. He came over smelling of cigarettes and rain, hands rough and sure, voice low enough to make your skin prickle. He'd text you on my way and be there twenty minutes later.
Simon's a man made of motion. Quiet entrances, quieter exits. Some evenings, he comes to you carrying the day's heat on his shoulders, eyes still alert from the road. Other weeks, he's gone entirely, his absence like a room with the air drawn out of it. You tell yourself you can handle it. You've lived without him before. You could again.
But you don't want to.
It had you lying in the crook of his arm, whispering little fantasies into the dark: If I have his child, he won't leave. If I have his baby, he'll stay. You wanted him to stay. That was all. But want, you knew, wasn't enough. There was no taming a man like him. There was no softening the iron in his core. No begging or pleading to stay. If you wanted him truly bound to you, you'd need something he couldn't walk away from.
The thought slithers between your ribs, prickly and electric. You imagine it over and over, as if repetition can manifest the future. The weight of possibility is there, in the slope of your belly, pressing down and up and through you at the same time. It's tender, warm, almost painful in its intensity.
The ache of it had a taste; coppery, like blood at the back of your throat.
It wasn't a plan, not really. Just wishful thinking with a heartbeat. Just small acts of forgetting— things that could be mistakes if you ever needed to name them. A skipped pill here, an offhand "Oh, I forgot," that feels harmless when you say it out loud. Small. So small you can still lie to yourself about it. The blister pack stays on the dresser, same as always, nothing out of place. The sound of Simon brushing his teeth in the bathroom covers the faint rattle of it when you pick it up to keep up the illusion. Sometimes you even take one, just to make sure the pattern looks right if he ever happened to look.
But he doesn't. He doesn't seem the kind of man who pokes around corners that aren't his concern. He moves through the world like a shadow, noticing only what matters and leaving the rest untouched. That makes it possible. That makes the skipped pills feel like quiet victories that only you know about.
The first time you skip a full month, it feels strange in its subtlety. You press your thumb to the last day on the pack and feel the faint dent of plastic give under the pad of your finger, but don't push through, and leave it there, sealed, and close the drawer. There's a tightening in your stomach, a coil of anticipation and something razored, an unnamed rush. And then he tells you he's on his way.
You feel it then— that flicker of elation, sharp and bright and so fucking stupid. Like maybe this time is different. You smooth the sheets and pace, pretending not to count the minutes. Every sound now seems magnified: the hum of the fridge, the distant scrape of tires on the street, the soft tick of the clock. When the knock comes, you almost jump. Your pulse spikes, a quick, painful drum in your ears, and your palms feel slick despite your best attempts to steady them.
The door swings open and he fills it, the sheer breadth of him easily eating the space.
Simon's always like this when he comes to you straight from work, still carrying the charge of it, like static clinging to his skin. His shirt is dark and damp at the collar, sleeves shoved up to his elbows, fabric stretched tight across his chest. There's a line pressed into his forearm, like something rigid had been strapped there for hours. His pants are thick, creased, built for utility, and the shoes he's got on are not the kind for everyday casual wear. The leather gloves on his hands are black, snug, and half-undone at the wrist.
You've never learned how to meet that first look.
He steps forward, and it's all heat and mass and the scrape of breath in your throat. His hand finds your jaw, leather rough where it catches your lip. The kiss hits you before you can brace for it. It isn't gentle. It's demand, pure and simple, his mouth on yours like it's owed to him. You make a sound— small, startled— and he answers with a low noise that rumbles through both of you. You arch toward him without thinking, your stomach tightening, fluttering in hot bursts, an ache blooming that isn't just arousal, it's need mirrored.
Simon always carries the outside world on him, and you can taste it on your tongue: salt, metal, smoke. He kisses like he's trying to erase time, like if he presses hard enough, the weeks apart will bleed out between your teeth and dissolve on his tongue. When he pulls back just long enough for you to gasp in a breath, you see his lips— wet, parted, dangerous.
"Missed that," he rasps, voice scraped thin from disuse. His hands find you again, your neck, your shoulder, the back of your neck, moving like a man rediscovering what's his. A glove slips over the curve of your cheek, thumb pushing at your mouth until you open for him. His words cut through the haze of your desire. "Bite."
Your teeth sink into the tip of his finger instantly, and he twists, tugging, and leather creaks at the curve of his knuckles before being freed. Then the other; bite, pull, leather loosening until it falls away. Something catches your eye, a fresh, angry scar, raw and red across the back of his hand. It's jagged, barely healed, but before curiosity can rise, he curls his palm around your wrist and drags you toward the bedroom.
The door's wide open when he's back on you, lips parting, tongue sliding deep, and you meet him there, open and greedy, pulling him closer until your teeth graze, your breath tangles, and the world narrows to this. You suck on his tongue, slow and sweet, and the sound he makes is pulled from somewhere low. His hips rock into you with weight, the press of his cock through cloth unmistakable. Another suck, your lips sealing around him, but this time meaner, and he groans into it, raw and guttural, vibrating through his mouth like a threat barely swallowed.
"Fuckin' filthy." Simon sounds ragged.
He grabs the hem of your shirt, lifting, throwing it somewhere, and his tongue flicks at the sensitive swell of your breast, circling the nipple until it spikes sharply under it, and drags it into his mouth with a careful greed. The small, helpless sounds you make seemingly feed him, make him heavier on you, more insistent.
Simon's own clothes stand less a chance than yours, all but ripping it over his head in one go, his chest bare, marks like old lightning laddering across it, flesh that tried to split but refused. His pants and belt soon follow, and there's a brief, impossible pause— the reveal of him, your eyes can't look away— and your pussy clenches in anticipation. His cock, raw and heavy, throbs, veins corded along the ruinous length like rope. The base disappears into dense, darker hair at his pelvic mound.
Your hands fumble at your waistband, peeling your bottoms away in a trembling, unsteady motion. They slide down your legs, pooling around your ankles, and the air hits your bare skin like lightning, setting every nerve on edge. He doesn't wait for you to settle, his hands heavy at your hips, and with a rough jerk, he practically throws you onto the bed.
Simon doesn't give you a chance to recover. He presses his mouth against you, warm, wet, and his tongue flicks forward in short, scorching strokes along the puffy folds of your pussy— and each pass makes your stomach tighten, a pooling of fire starting to spill into your chest. His hands are everywhere, one digging into your hip, the other lifting and spreading you, pulling you wide so he can reach every inch he wants.
The tips of his fingers start to press into your flesh, circling instead of tapping, slowing down instead of speeding up, taking you to the edge with ease from memory with intimate cruelty, from the other times your body has confessed under his hands and the biting friction, the wet drag of his wickedly skilled tongue, the weight of his palms on your legs— it all coalesces into a tension so taut it threatens to snap you in half.
You gasp, mewl, and then, god, your body tenses like a live wire, your stomach folding over itself as a shuddering, burning wave tears through you. Your fingers claw at the sheets, at his shoulders, fucking anything you can grab onto as you come with a force that leaves your chest heaving, vision blurry with tears, your body raw and pussy slickened with the evidence of your fiery release.
Simon presses a wet, scorching kiss to your inner thigh, and when he pulls back, the air between you crackles. Your body is already trembling and open, hungry, needy, and every part of you screams yes, yes, finally— let him take, let him fuck you full of his come, let him leave something behind that'll show a month from now.
But then he reaches into the nightstand drawer, and there's a glint of gold between his index and middle fingers. A condom.
"Bloody timing." And the momentary pause would have you squirming if only you weren't so caught in disbelief.
How could you forget?
He doesn't look at you, just tears the foil with practiced ease, rolls it on, the drag of latex around him snug, making him grunt, and nudges your legs open like nothing's changed.
But everything has.
The ache in your belly goes cold. The coil unwinds with a sickening slack. The hunger curdles. It turns sour, bitter, like biting into something sweet and finding it rotten at the core.
He pushes, the first inch dragging, stubborn, and he adjusts, pressing harder, angling differently, brute force tempered by careful patience. It's a fight to sink fully; every shallow pump, every inch he claims, sends a molten thread through your core, and when he finally settles, something in you snaps taut again. It recoils from the bitterness and reclaims the heat.
Your breath stutters, your fingers scrape through the sweat at his scalp, your mind goes quiet.
Next time, then.
---
Two months have passed since then.
Two months since you rewrote another rule.
Two months since you took the condoms in your drawer and replaced them with a neat, little row of sabotages. The door hadn't even clicked shut before you were moving, heart thundering in your ears, the drawer sliding open with a soft scrape that sounded deafening in the still house. A needle— want honed to a silvered point— slipped through the wrapper as soon as he'd walked out with your favorite coffee on his tongue, your arousal still drying on his knuckles, his mouth parted like he might say something and didn't.
One after another, the needle pierced thin foil, puncturing it with a muted pop; not enough to be obvious, just enough to fail. To trick fate. To have this failure pass for chance. Your hands had trembled at your own audacity, thrill flickering through your veins in hot bursts, your pulse a wild, frantic thing. You'd lingered on the last one, thumb brushing over the little pricks you'd made, and imagined the consequences spinning outward, invisible but inevitable. A smile, brief and damning, bloomed on your face as heat spilled low, thick and alive, bunching behind your navel like something that wanted out.
Or inviting in.
His absence, however, has become a silence that's grown teeth. It didn't politely settle into dust; it prowled. It followed you into the kitchen, through the hallway, into the living room, winding around your ankles, tugging at your hair, clinging to your chest. You felt it in the way your spine stiffened when you smelled the faint ghost of tobacco from a neighbor's porch, in the way your breath stuttered when the phone buzzed with a number that wasn't his.
You told yourself you weren't keeping track of how long it had been, but your body did. It tallied every night he didn't come through the door, every time you woke with your cunt slick and empty, every breath that didn't taste like him. Want shifted under your skin like a living thing, hard to tame, clawing at you, making you move through your house like an animal pacing its cage.
It scraped.
It circled.
It dug its claws through the soft parts of you until all that was left was the raw, restless sting of need, the ghost of his touch turned mean with thirst. It made you foolhardy. You started keeping the windows cracked at night, though the season's still blistering, started leaving the light on, knowing it draws things in, a beacon in the dark, hoping it'll draw him backin.
And it did.
Fifteen minutes ago, his name flashed on your phone. Simple: On my way.
You stared at it longer than you should've, thumb hovering above the screen, heart beating fierce in your throat. It shouldn't feel like this, like the world's tilting on its axis. But something in you had gone soft and cutting all at once, the ache you'd been nursing stirring awake like a creature stretching its limbs.
You move through the house without really thinking; straighten the cute doormat, smoothing your shirt, glance at your reflection just long enough to pretend you don't care what he'll see. You run your tongue over your teeth, wipe your palms against your thighs, and tell yourself this is just another fucking.
But it's not.
There's a flash beneath the nerves, something steadier, darker, almost triumphant. Exultant. It hums under your skin, subdued but certain. He's on his way. And that's all that matters. The how, the why, the tiny perforations that might've coaxed fate off course— those details feel irrelevant now. You'd done what you had to.
The guilt that tried to sprout in the first few days has long since burned itself out, smothered under something fiercer, something that feels a lot like purpose. The ends justify the means; they always have. What you want isn't cruel. It's clarity. Honestly, he should've known better than to leave something like you unsupervised.
You pause at the counter, fingertips resting on the edge of the wood, and smile to yourself. A small, secret thing. If you're guilty, it's of hunger. Of wanting too much. Of refusing to let it rot quietly inside you.
The knock comes suddenly. Firm. Two beats spaced just far enough apart.
You freeze for half a second anyway— just long enough for your pulse to trip over itself— then you breathe once, slow and shallow, before turning the knob.
Simon looks taller than you remember, or maybe it's just the way the porch light carves him out of the dark, shadowing everything but the hard glint of his eyes. He looks the same and not at all, hair a little longer, jaw rougher, jacket heavier from the cold. The smell hits first: leather, smoke, the faint trace of something warm and bitter that you know clings to his hands.
His eyes cut to the socks on your feet, your hand on the knob, your throat when you swallow. Instinctive.
Then, finally, his expression shifts to something dry.
"D'you miss me, then?"
You can't answer honestly, not without choking on it. The truth was a raw thing in your mouth. Like thirst misses water. Like fire misses oxygen. Like a wound misses the knife that made it. But you don't say that. Instead, you shift your weight and mumble, "Didn't think you'd show up again."
His head tilts, that familiar rasp of amusement in his throat. "No?"
You shrug. "You've been gone a while, longer than usual."
"Had work."
You try not to smile. The way he says it— flat, uninterested— makes you want to dig at him, to see if you can find the edge where he cracks. But the thing about Simon is that he never gives you that satisfaction outright. He's all silence without end, smoke without fire. You always think you've found the ember, until you realize it's the one in your hand that's burning.
He shoulders past you without waiting for an answer, and it's dizzying how quickly he fills the space again, how your house seems to reorient itself around him. His boots drag faint dirt across the floor, and you feel like you ought to say something about it, but your tongue forgets its shape when he grabs you by the wrist, leading you toward the couch in the living room, but first makes a pit stop by the bedroom to grab a—
The second you see it, flashing gold between his fingers, it sets you thrumming from the inside out. You're not waiting anymore, you're taking. Arousal snarls low, dragging syrupy and heavy through your hips, snaking along your spine and curling tight. Impulse takes over before reason can catch up. You surge forward, reckless and grinning, and shove at his chest with both hands, and with everything you've got, push.
It's absurdly ambitious; he's a mountain of a man and you're...well you, and the physics will never really add up but he goes down anyway, landing with a grunt that's salted with amusement.
Simon's steadying himself on the cushions when he says, "Must really be starvin' for it."
You straddle him quickly, knees bracketing his thick thighs, feeling the solid shape of him pressed beneath you. Even just sitting, the sheer mass of him against you is almost too much; there's a sharp burn along the insides of your legs, where skin presses to muscle, and it leaves a tremble in your breath and a throb in your teeth. He's so much bigger than what you're built for.
You don't speak; you can't. The words you might have had are caught in the space between his knuckles and your spine. His fingers are impossibly sure as they find your pussy, one of them sliding in first, just enough to make you quiver, and there's a firm patience in the way he presses and twists, each stroke coaxing you wider, wetter, hotter.
A second finger follows, slick with your arousal, stretching you, working around the edges where nerves are sharpest. His other hand anchors your hip, keeping you exactly where he wants you even though your thighs ache, bright and wild, pleasure threaded with the edge of strain. When he leans down, brushing a rough kiss across your collarbone, you're already dripping, already lit aflame, already ready.
Simon shifts slightly beneath you, pulling back just enough to pull out his cock and it presses up against you, too big, too much, and entirely yours to ride. You watch, already having imagined this for weeks, how the latex rolls over his length and the hunger with all its teeth and claws bites down the second you start to lower yourself. The stretch is electric, a pleasure threaded with the edge of strain, and he watches you take it inch by inch, watching your want in the way your body opens for him.
Your hands dig into his shoulders, nails sinking into the tense curve of muscle, and your senses stretched to the limit— you feel simultaneously fragile and ferociously alive. His eyes track yours, dark and lit, as he fucks up into you, feeling him in your belly, your chest, in your throat, every sensation now turned up because this thing that you've been planning and wanting is now within your reach, at the tips of your fingers.
You move with him, letting your body roll and tilt, pressing down as much as you can, reveling in the unbearable fullness, your breath jagged, skin hot and hair damp. He's the axis, the air, the gravity in the room, and it all winds tight in the very marrow of you.
And then you're coming, crying out as your walls clamping down— silent, muffled, or maybe not— because the pleasure is acute, overwhelming, and terrifyingly delicious all at once. It jolts up through you in frantic bursts, leaving your limbs weak, your chest heaving, your mind full of nothing but the raw, starved need you'd been nursing for weeks.
And just as quickly as you were taken to the clouds, he's gone.
Simon pulls out smoothly, leaving the wet heat of you. Your eyes widen, a gasp slipping through your lips, your body jolting in utter disbelief. The condom is gone— gone— and he positions himself over you, cock still glistening, and releases with a choked groan, letting himself come warm and heavy across your stomach and the mound you wanted him to fill.
Your body is still trembling when he settles back slightly, letting you catch your breath, though catching it feels impossible. Every nerve ending under your core is screaming with the ghost of what just fucking happened and the absence of what should've been yours. The tightness along your thighs hasn't eased— it only flares with every brush of his fingers and movement of his hip.
Your chest rises and falls, heart rabbitting, and every inhale tastes of him, warm and slightly bitter. You'd imagined the fullness, the long, delicious weight of him inside you, and now that fantasy has been stolen. Frustration claws at your ribs, and your fingers curling into the cushions that feel too soft, too wrong, teeth gnawing at your bottom lip as your mind scrambles for release that's already come and left you hollow.
The mess on your stomach is cooling, tacky against skin that still sings with heat, a reminder of how much he gave and how much he didn't. You watch the slow flex of his shoulders as he lazily reaches for you, wiping a thumb through his come, smearing it before pressing it between your lips, and you take him in without thinking, tongue circling the salt of him, because you don't know what else to do.
It feels like consolation, something small and mean, a toss of scrap after the feast. His thumb drags free, leaving a wet streak across your chin that cools almost instantly, and you stare at the line of his throat while he runs a hand over his face, grounding himself while you're still floating somewhere just shy of whole, with your secret tucked somewhere deep, quiet as breath, waiting.
Next time, then.
--
Simon's a man who notices patterns, has survived his entire life by attention. He has to because he had to. When he was a knobby-kneed boy, the only way to stay ahead of a bad hand at home was to know the signs before they showed. Those early years trained him the same way a dog gets trained: smell the air, read the room, move before the blow lands. It's not conscious anymore. He's like a coyote with his nose to the wind. Everything around him is information that folds into a map he carries in his head.
Patterns have kept him alive; the difference between a harmless silence and the kind that meant an ambush, the smell of a storm before it hit, the way someone's breathing changed when they were lying. You were no different.
He pretends not to see the way your hand lingers a little too long over the slope of your stomach when you think he's not looking, or the way your voice dips when the subject of time comes up— how long it's been, when he'll be back. He certainly pretended not to notice how you used to take your pill before bed, always with a bottle of water left sweating on the nightstand. How he'd hear the tiny pop of the blister foil before you turned off the light. He pretended not to see the bottle still sitting there, lukewarm and untouched, in the same spot it's been since the time before last.
Then the condoms. He'd noticed the subtle give in the wrapper, a wrongness under his thumb, barely there, but Simon's spent years dismantling weapons blindfolded; he knows the feel of damage, knows the difference between tension and rupture, between wear and tampering.
Simon doesn't call you on it. He doesn't really want to, not when it's so much more telling to watch. After all, he's always been fluent in small tells and you've started speaking a new dialect of them.
He knows you think he's just quiet. That his silences are made of nothing but the same distance he always retreats to after sex, after touch, after everything burns too hot and too close. But Simon's quiet isn't hollow. It's a room with the lights off. You don't realize he's still in it, listening.
It's not anger that he feels when he puts the pieces together. It's something quieter, more complicated. Something that feels like a hand closing around a thread and drawing it taut. He lets it spool through his fingers, watching how you move when you think you're still unseen. He's not surprised by you. That's the funny thing; he never is. You act on want, and he's already known that about you. You want what feels inevitable. You chase the shape of it even when you don't know what you'll do once it's yours.
So he lets you.
Lets you think you’re hiding something, tucking it under your tongue like a coin, but he’s already traced its edges. He’s already weighed its worth.
You think that the smallness of your plan keeps it safe, but Simon's seen what happens to people who build houses out of half-truths. He knows what cracks look like before they split. He's learned that everything gives itself away if you're patient enough to listen.
And patience is the one thing he's never run out of.
Even now, he sees everything: your own Morse code of want and shame and defiance.
Your breathing's still uneven, for one. Not from exhaustion, not anymore, but from something restless and unsatisfied still caged under the ivory of your ribs. Each inhale catches a little at the end, like you're holding it in, steadying yourself, afraid to give away how much you're still feeling.
Then there's your mouth. You bite your lip, always the same one. The soft pull of your teeth is almost absentminded, but he knows better. It's a tell he's catalogued before a question, before you ask something you think you shouldn't. You're keeping yourself quiet.
Your eyes don't meet his. They flick from his throat to his hand, to the lazy, thoughtless way he runs his fingers over his shirt, smearing the last trace of what he spent. You look there too long, and he files that away.
Maybe next time, he thinks, he'll watch your mouth part around pleas, the delicate lilt in your voice when you crave something you can't quite ask for and keep dangling the prize just out of reach.
Or maybe, because you are clever and stubborn and reckless, if you beg for it, make him want to give it to you, he'll finally give you what you want.
mer!Price x human!reader
Genre/Warnings: merhybrid!Price, tera!Price, fem!reader, teratophilia, pwp, explicit, p in v sex, dubcon adjacent, female anatomy, creampie, imagine, oneshot
My Masterlist
** First time posting for kinktober?? I'm experimenting a bit and leaning into new genres with my writing, not sure how this'll go but I'm having fun. might lean away from fanfic a bit to and try my hand at some original works. Enjoy!
His webbed hand slapped the slab of rock beside your head. Your mouth hung open in a silent ‘O’. Your eyes were trained on the thick rough skin of his arms. Trailing up to look at his bearded face, brows contorted as he watches his thick cock disappear and reappear behind the swell of your ass as he fucked into your slick cunt.
You were bent over a large rock in the secluded cove where you’d often spent days with him, swimming and wading in the low tides searching for shells to add to your collection. Now here you were lower half dipped into the salty sea as he pinned you against the jagged stone.
The sun was beginning to set over the horizon making the water look dark, nearly as dark as John’s lustful gaze as it trailed the curve of your spine. One hand pins your shoulder down as you took him from behind.
A guttural moan finally escaped you. You pushed at the edge of the stone slab, in an attempt to block it from digging into the soft flesh of your hips with each of his thrusts, but it’s no use… John pays no mind to the sting of your skin as it scrapes the jagged edges, all he cares about is how beautiful you look taking him so well, the warmth of your pretty pussy a jarring contrast to the cool evening and icy water.
It isn’t much longer that your squeals echo through the cove as he bottoms out, pumping you full with his sticky ropes of cum, clenched around his cock as he’s buried deep inside you emptying every drop into your gooey walls.
If you weren't certain about your relationship before there is no question now.
Mer!reader or mer!141 who cant get pregnant but wants to so bad??
Being stuffed full with anal beads(idk another name for it) to get both the feeling of fullness and the feeling of having them pulled/pushed out??
Ohhhh I love this <33 what about mer!reader who is a foster parent at the mer sanctuary??
Whenever there's mers that need a lot of extra attention, they're given to you. Of course, your instincts won't accept just any mer, so the sanctuary has to get...creative.
Your lead caregiver, price, is always in charge of the procedure. It's a delicate balance he has to strike, inducing a faux pregnancy without stressing you out. The water in your tank is gradually warmed to simulate the natural travel you would take to warm waters for mating, then price brings you on deck for the actual thing.
He has to trick both your mind and body, or this whole thing won't work, so a nice silicone dildo modeled after a real mers is strapped to his thigh. Odd? Yes, but definitely not the worst thing he has to do for his job. Price essentially fucks you with the dildo, and soon enough an assistant is squeezing a syringe full of a pregnancy hormone-inducing drug.
Then, your behaviour is carefully observed over the next few weeks. Price smiles whenever you indulge in nesting habits, preparing for your new pup. Once you finally release your eggs, they're quickly scooped up when you sleep.
Then, the foster mer is placed in your tank after being thoroughly soaked in the eggs, ensuring they held your scent. Oddly, you don't seem to notice or care that your "pup" is a fully grown mer with scars and a fucked up tail, cuddling the big guy to your chest until he falls asleep.
Of course, there's still a lot of supervision, but ensuring ghost recovers will be much easier when you're constantly feeding him and chirping at price whenever ghost curls in pain.
breathplay with ghost, where you're on your knees, sucking his cock, and he just... pinches your nose. and holds it. hand wrapped tightly in your hair to make sure you don't pull away, his cock snug in your throat.
just when you're on the brink of seeing stars, he lets go. your sharp intake of breath almost giving his tip a frostbite.
"looks like i've got your nose, sweetheart."
burying himself to the hilt, he holds your head against his abdomen, your nose digging into his skin, restricting your air again. he brushes your hair back to get a good look at you.
"want me to give it back?" he whispers, knowing full well you can't retort.
Simon Riley, who has hyperspermia. Can fill a condom with just his precum and doesnt really have sex anymore cause most women dont wanna run the risk of being pregnant.
Until he meets you.
You, who beg for him to cum inside and sleep with his cock still in 'so it sticks'. You who will bend over any surface for him if you can tell hes getting uncomfortable.
After the first time fucking you, he fell completely into the idea of breeding you too. Couldn't stop imagining you swollen with his copious amounts of seed, holding your intertwined love in that tummy.
And of course, within weeks, it would happen. People would call him crazy for getting a girl pregnant that he wasn't even dating for a month.
Genre/Warnings: Ghost x fem!reader, CW: burning, alluding to smut, BDSM acts, sadomasochism, imagine, no plot, oneshot
My Masterlist
** Inspired by THIS post. It was probably just a joke, but I made it freaky, lol. Enjoy.
Ghost leaned against the balcony railing, smoke spiraling from the end of his lit cigarette in the cold night air before dispersing above him.
You stepped up beside him. He could sense the question in your gaze as you eyed the cherry end of the cig.
"Spit it out, love."
Ghost said, getting impatient with your stares.
"Can you put it out on me?"
You knew the absurdity in your question the moment it escaped from your lips. Ghost stood straighter, clearly thrown off by the question. He seemed to search his own thoughts for a logical explanation before finally asking you,
"Yer not serious, are ya? Why would ya ask me to do somethin' like that?"
You weren't exactly certain yourself. It wasn't like you had much time to think about it. The thought had merely popped into your head when you spotted him, and if he hadn't offered up an opportunity to speak your mind just now, you surely would've kept it to yourself.
"Being burnt by hot ash… that's goin' ta hurt ya love."
He warns as if you had no concept of heat and pain.
"I know... That's the point."
Your voice is quiet as your initial confidence diminishes under his judgmental observation. Ghost narrows his eyes for a moment. The idea was crazy… insane even, but why did that intrigue him? He steps back from the balcony to face you better and ashes his cigarette.
"Come 'er then."
He sighs
"Show me where ya want it."
You smile, and the excitement in your stomach returns with his agreement. You step forward and lift your shirt, giving him access to a soft spot on your hip just above the waistband of your pants.
"Yer sure 'bout this? Once I do, it can't be undone, Might even leave a scar."
He warns, eyebrow raised, fully expecting you to back out.
"I don't mind."
You reassure him.
Ghost let out a gruff sigh of acceptance as if to say, 'Oh well, your hip, not mine.'
"The things I do for pretty girls,"
he grumbles,
"Just keep still, yea?"
He squeezes your hip in his large hand, holding you in place. He couldn't deny that he too felt a bit of excitement at this moment. You stared down at the smooth surface of your exposed skin in anticipation.
"Eyes up here love, focus on me. You ready?"
You were quick to obey your lustful gaze meeting his. You nod
"Yes."
You confirm. He pulls one last drag from the cigarette to keep the tip red before bringing it to your hip and pressing it down. His eyes return to yours looking into them as he twists the cig between his fingers.
God your eyes are beautiful. He thought to himself. Your lips part and a choked hummed moan escapes you. One mixed with both pain and pleasure.
Ghost found his heart beating faster. How was he getting turned on by this it was stupid, dangerous even.
He drops the cig on the ground wiping the ash off the circular burn with the pad of his thumb.
"There. Now yer all marked up for me. Hurt as good as you thought it would?"
He asks. A flicker of concern yet amusement in his eyes as he watches you silently observe the new wound.
**CW: My secondary blog is dedicated to dark content!! DEAD DOVE DO NOT EAT, Dark romance, Taboo, smut, omegaverse, teratophilia, monsters, hybrids, mostly dedicated to fanfic but may occasionally contain original works, explicit, 18+, MDNI
About me
(CW!! Complete Masterlist is mixed content from all three of my blogs. More about blogs below.)
Complete Masterlist
** Everything will always be tagged appropriately. (More thorough tags on actual post.)
**CW: My Primary blog is dedicated to 'conventional' content, fluff, angst, light smut, common kinks, vanilla smut, romance, explicit, 18+, MDNI
Alkaline Masterlist
TERTIARY BLOG:
Tertiary blog: @divinely-devoured
**CW: My Tertiary (Third) blog is dedicated to monster content!! DEAD DOVE DO NOT EAT, Taboo, smut, some fluff/romance, omegaverse, teratophilia, monsters, hybrids, this is a niche blog, mainly erotica, some fluff/romance, dedicated to original works and commissions only, explicit, 18+, MDNI
Divine Masterlist
** Interested in Requests or commissions? See below! (Payment is always optional. Commissions for original works only. Fanfiction requests will always be free.)
Request Rules
** You can also find me elsewhere!
🔗 https://www.linktr.ee/Alkalinewtr
Divider credits: @cafekitsune
** Thank you for allowing the use of your resources. Please go support their work. Like, follow, re-blog.
PT 2
Stepbrother!Soap x fem!reader
Description: Reader turns to Soap for release after Price leaves for work.
Genre/Warnings: DEAD DOVE DO NOT EAT, CW: Stepcest, 18+, MDNI, stepbrother!Soap x stepsister!reader, fem!reader, stepcast!141, poly!141, Taboo, smut, P in V, vanilla sex, missionary, light praise, light begging, size kink, dark romance, older step-brother, porn with semi plot, explicit, series
WC: 1.5k
My Masterlist
**AN Part one seemed to go well, here's part two! Bit longer this time. Not much else to say. So, let me know if I'm missing tags. Enjoy!
P.S. Not that I should have to say this but, I do not condone or encourage these acts. This is purely fiction and intended as entertainment only.
If you'd like to be added/removed from the taglist please, let me know.
<< PART 1
The ache in your core remains through the rest of the morning. You’ve been trying to distract yourself for a while now, slouched into the couch cushions, flipping through TV channels. John left for work hours ago, and Gaz was off at the gym. You’re half-tempted to snake your fingers into your shorts right there in the living room, and you would, if it weren’t for the fact that Ghost and Soap are still home.
At least for now, your hand could suffice from the comfort of your bed. Or even better, the pulsing showerhead in a tub of steamy water might do the trick. But then again, there’s no need to settle for something so quick and inadequate when Soap is upstairs, tucked away in bed. You shut off the TV and make your way upstairs quietly, hoping to find some relief.
With your hand wrapped around the knob of Soap's bedroom door, you hesitate. Worry creeps in, making you second-guess yourself, but the pulsing ache between your thighs is too intense to ignore. You crack the door and step inside quietly, thankful that the plush carpet cushions your footsteps.
Unfortunately, it doesn’t make much difference. The sheets rustle, and Soap turns to blink up at you groggily.
A lazy half-smile twitches at the corner of his mouth. His eyes scrunch as if staring into the bright sun. You smile. You can’t help but find his sleepy, quizzical look adorable.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to wake you.”
You murmur, the confidence you came in with is fading fast. You look down, sheepishly.
Soap props himself up on his elbow, rubbing the sleep from his eyes.
“No, it's fine. What’s up?”
His voice is rough with sleep, causing a flutter in your abdomen. You shut the door behind you with a soft click and approach the bed. He lifts the covers wordlessly, inviting you to slide in beside him. He knows exactly why you’re here. John and you aren’t the only ones in the house with secrets, and this isn’t the first time you’ve crawled into bed with Soap.
He pulls you close, a heavy arm draping over your waist as he buries his nose in your hair, inhaling deeply. His breath tickles down your skin as he trails down your neck affectionately.
“Mmm, you smell good.”
You can feel the thump of his growing erection, already pressing painfully against your thigh. Soap was always easily aroused, and hard as ever. You shift your leg to ease the pressure.
“M’sorry, Lass, I just can’t help myself.”
He mutters into your shoulder, leaving a light trail of kisses there.
“I know.”
You whisper.
“Lucky for you, that’s what I’m here for.”
Soap perks up at that, shifting his weight off the mattress to hover above you.
“Yeah?”
He practically whined into your ear.
“You needed me that bad, huh?”
Your breath catches in your throat as he starts grinding his hips into yours, friction building the heat between your legs again.
“Yes.”
You whimper. The burning sensation is too much. Right now, you are desperate. Your body begs for release. Your mind drifts back to this morning, to John teasing your clit, coaxing an orgasm to the surface with each curl of his fingers, only to stop just short. It’s been too long since someone filled you, and your body craves it.
Soap kisses your cheek, his lips finding your ear lobe, tongue, and teeth grazing the sensitive skin.
Your hands tug at the hem of his shirt, a silent demand for him to take it off. He complied, removing the tee shirt, then wasting no time pushing down his sweats and boxers in one swift motion. You’re not sure when things started with Soap. You just know that when John isn’t around to take care of you, Johnny always is.
As you sit up and pull off your shirt, Soap reaches into his bedside drawer. He rips open a foil packet with his teeth, quickly rolling on the slippery condom like he’s afraid you’ll change your mind if he takes too long.
There’s no need to remove your shorts. The moment the rubber is in place, Soap’s patience wears thin. He wasn’t going to fumble with any more clothing. Without warning, he tugs the fabric aside and nudges the leaking head of his cock against your entrance. The stretch burns deliciously as he eases in, inch by inch, until he’s fully buried inside you.
He pants against your neck, breath hot as he lets out an exasperated,
“Fuuuck.”
His movements are gentle, they always are. Partly to stay quiet as Ghost is in the next room, but mostly because it’s just in his nature.
Johnny is nothing if not boyfriend material. Tall, handsome, sweet, funny, with a fat, girthy cock to top it all off. He’s the total package. If he weren’t your stepbrother, you could actually see a future with him. But for now, short bouts of pleasure will have to do.
A thin sheen of sweat glistens on his skin as he thrusts into you, arms braced on either side of your head. You tuck your arms under his, scratching lightly at his back. Your forehead rests against his shoulder, lips brushing his ear with soft, shaky moans to show him just how good he’s making you feel.
He glides so easily in and out of your drooling pussy. Your slick coating the base of his cock, dripping down your thighs and making a mess of his sheets.
“Fuck, Lass. You feel so fuckin’ tight.”
Johnny whimpers. His breath was warm on your ear.
You bit back a moan, and Soap dipped his head down to suckle at your soft breasts, tongue flicking over the sensitive nipple. Your nerves are on fire, pleasure pulsing through every inch of you. But you grew frustrated with each deep, slow thrust, your core still aching. You needed to cum like you needed air to breathe, and this pace was agonizing.
“Please.”
You breathed, arching into him.
“Please.“
He chuckles breathily, clearly amused by how needy you are for him. He relished in it. He loved knowing how badly you needed him, like he was the only one who could give you what you desired.
“What? What do you need, hmm?”
He cooed softly, his hum vibrating through your mind. Despite trying to sound cocky, his voice trembled with need.
“Please, Johnny. I need to cum. I need you.”
You pout, thrusting your hips to meet his, as if he could get any deeper. Soap groans and sits back on his knees. He grabs the plush of your thighs, adjusting your legs so he can hit that perfect angle.
He pushes forward and stills. The head of his cock was nustled against the gooey spot deep within you. You wriggle your hips, trying to coax him to move.
“So impatient.”
He teases, but he keeps going, despite the slow pace.
One hand slides between your legs. Thumb circling your clit. Your eyes roll back at the sudden jolt of pleasure, brain going fuzzy. You bite your lip, lashes fluttering closed, and you cup your own breasts in your hands, holding on to anything you can to ground yourself.
His thrusts turned sloppy and erratic. He was close, you could feel it. His focus remained on the swirl of his thumb around your sensitive bud. It wasn’t long before your orgasm crashed over you. You gasp, sprinkles of white blossom behind your vision, muscles clenching around him. Your body relaxed beneath him, feeling light and airy.
You breathed deeply, trying to steady your shallow breaths. Soap was squeezing the fat of your thighs as he continued his thrusts, hips stuttering. His eyes were closed, his head tilted up to the sky. With a final, strangled groan, he buries himself deep and comes.
He slumps over you, a panting mess, one hand kneading at your hip.
“Fuck, lass. That was good. You’re so perfect.”
He breathes. After taking a moment to ground himself, he slips off the condom and tosses it into the trash at the foot of the bed, before falling back on the mattress beside you. Your heartbeat slows, and you press a soft kiss to his lips before climbing off the bed and pulling your clothes back on.
“Leaving so soon?”
Soap asks, disappointment clear in his voice. You knew how clingy he could be. Soap loves touch, affection, and closeness.
You lean over him, and he pulls you into one more kiss, softer this time. Your lips curled up against his, hands brushing his cheek before pulling away and heading to the door.
“I owe you cuddles.”
You say. Soap lets out a small huff. You felt a pang of guilt for running off so soon, but you would make it up to him.
“Damn right you do,”
He mutters, his playful tone giving him away.
“I'll hold you to that.”
He calls after you as you slip into the hallway, closing the door behind you.
Stepdad!Price x fem!reader
Description: Price and reader try to take advantage of a quiet morning.
Genre/Warnings: DEAD DOVE DO NOT EAT, CW: Stepcest, 18+, MDNI, stepdad!Price x stepdaughter!reader, fem!reader, stepcast!141, poly!141, Taboo, smut, fingering, dark romance, daddy kink, edging, age gap, porn with semi plot, explicit, series, reader and price are interrupted
WC: 823
My Masterlist
**AN This is part one of a new series I am working on and my first time experimenting with writing something more... Socially niche? unacceptable? Anyway, let me know if I'm missing tags. Enjoy!🤓
P.S. Not that I should have to say this but, I do not condone or encourage these acts. This is purely fiction and intended as entertainment only.
If you'd like to be added/removed from the taglist please, let me know.
It's early morning. The sun is starting to peek over the horizon, and a soft blue glow creeps through your blinds.
The smell of freshly brewed coffee wafts up the stairs. It must be your stepfather, Price, getting ready for the day.
Despite it being the summer, the wooden floorboards are cold beneath your feet. You pad quietly down the steps, wearing an old pair of shorts and a tee shirt. The shorts ride a bit higher now than they did when you first bought them a few years ago.
As you rounded the corner into the kitchen, you spot Price leaning over the sink, his back to you, looking out the window as he waits patiently for his coffee.
You lean over the counter on the other side of the island, smirking.
"Mornin'."
Your voice cuts through the silence. Price's head whips around. His expression softens when he sees you, a smile tugging at his lips.
"Good morning, sweetheart."
Price greets, pushing off the sink and turning toward you.
"Sleep well?"
You shrug in response.
"The boys still asleep?"
Price nods.
"And mom?"
You ask as you step around the counter, letting him get a better view.
"Gone for the weekend."
He replies, voice low, almost amused. His eyes roam over your body, lingering just a bit too long. You hum and use your arms to pull yourself up on the cool granite countertop.
"That's a nice little outfit you've got on."
His gruff accent coming out breathier than intended.
"You like it?"
Price ran a hand over the stubble on his chin, eyes slowly dragging down your bare legs.
"Very much."
He murmurs, stepping in between your parted thighs. His hands settle on either side of you, his usual cheeky smile on his face.
You lean in, your breath ghosting over his ear as you whisper,
"I've got nothing on underneath."
His brow lifts in surprise, intrigued.
"Really... Nothing at all?"
You shook your head, smirking.
"Naughty girl."
Price mutters, his eyes darkening.
"I'm sorry, Daddy... It’s just been so long."
You whine, jutting out your bottom lip in a playful pout.
"I know, baby."
He inhaled sharply, pressing his body flush to yours. His arms wrap around you and pull you forward. It had been quite a while since you were this close to him. You missed this, the tension in his muscles and the warmth of his body.
"You've been so patient for me."
He says softly. One of his large hands slips down between you. Momentarily gripping the fat of your thigh before sliding beneath the hem of your shorts.
"Be a good girl and keep quiet for me. Yeah?"
His words hit you like a spark. The nerves flip to arousal, pulsing low in your core. You nod eagerly.
Prices thumb finds your entrance, gliding through your slick before circling your clit with ease. You bite back a whimper, leaning back on your palms against the cool countertop. Your knees, mindlessly falling open wider.
"So needy, sweetheart."
Price chuckles, dipping his head down to your neck. He lightly trails kisses down to your collarbone, leaving a few soft bites. A sharp gasp escapes your lips. Price presses a calloused hand over your mouth.
A moan vibrates across his palm as two thick digits slide into the tight walls of your soaked entrance.
The wet sound fills the kitchen. You let out a shaky breath, rocking your hips forward in search of more. Price chuckles, his hungry gaze falls between you, watching you ride his fingers. The bulge in his pajama straining harder at the sight.
"You're so damn beautiful like this."
His gaze climbs to yours. You reach a soft hand forward, hooking your fingertips in his waistband and lightly tugging his hips forward.
His eyes brighten with lust, and a low grunt escapes him, followed by an amused chuckle.
"Oh? You want more, do you, sweetheart?"
He asks. His hand drops from your mouth and cups the back of your neck, capturing your pretty lips in a sweet kiss.
"So desperate. Don't worry, baby. Daddy's gonna take good care of you."
His fingers pick up pace as you cling to the edge. White knuckles clawing at the granite. Heat vibrates through you, building fast, core tightening as you near your release.
"You've been so good, so patient, sweetheart."
Price murmurs into your neck, suckling on the soft skin. But before you can fall over the edge, footsteps thunder down the staircase.
Price jerks back immediately.
"Dammit."
He hisses. Turning to casually pour himself a cup of Coffee.
You sit up straighter, quickly crossing your legs as Gaz rounds the corner, oblivious, and mildly surprised to see anyone else awake.
"Oh! Good morning."
He says.
You offer him a small smile, eyes flicking toward the back of Price's head. The ache between your thighs is still persistent.
Too late now. You'd have to wait for another time.
hope you don't mind me adding onto the main post, but as an additional note:
duct tape can and will rip sensitive skin open (like skin on the lips), not to mention ripping hair off. if you want to use tape during sex, invest in bondage tape that's specifically designed for application to skin and can often be reused. it's worth it to not hurt your partner in a bad way
Also they make bondage tape that LOOKS LIKE DUCT TAPE! If you're doing a kidnapping fantasy or whatever and you wanna use duct tape it's probably a good idea to use the bondage tape that LOOKS LIKE DUCT TAPE instead of Actual Duct Tape. It's about the same price as actual duct tape, btw.
And yeah maybe you know what you're in for and the hair yanking and not-quite-rugburn-but-kinda-worse after effects are part of why you wanna use duct tape. No judgement. But please also be aware that repeated exposure to stuff like adhesives can sensitize you them. You can develop a reaction even if everything was fine the first ten or thousand times you did it. If you start noticing any kind of rash or weird tingling feeling with the duct tape? For the love of fuck, lay off the duct tape; because that shit will only get worse and can potentially also start making even regular old band-aids give you literal hives.
wow it’s my lucky day! 🍀 okay okay brother simon tries to be good for once and control his urges and divert them to someone else. a chance at normalcy for both. sister reader should be happy right? but it feels off…basically in a fucked up way we’re jealous :( angsty jealous smut?
Cw: DARKFIC, INCEST, DUB-CON/NON-CON, jealousy, smut, tell me if I missed any.
Note: I know it's been a while, but I'm half back!
Simon had vowed to protect you from both the world and him, pressing a kiss on your sweaty forehead. He had promised you peace and devotion while he held you, his warm chest pressed against your back, body hovering over you and head nuzzling your shoulder. With his words set in stone, it ended the way he would love you and devote his whole body to you. That night was thew last time he touched you.
The change made you confused, your mind swirling in a dizzying storm of question and betrayal. It hurt you when Simon brushed off your touches, his voice wording the wrongness about the relationship you once shared. The morality of it confused you. Why, after so many years of it, was it so wrong? Had you done something to hurt him? Had you done something to deserve this hopeless chase and rejection? Wasn’t it his idea? To share your warmth and affection, the bodies of siblings made one, and the satisfaction with someone you knew you could always trust.
So why? Why was it that he was ignoring you and pushing you away? You didn’t understand and tried over and over. You reached out to him, wrapping your arms around his shoulders, pressing yourself to him with sweet mumbles of wanting a taste of love, but he shook you off with a frown. You brushed your hands over the expanse of his broad back, fingers tracing the scars that crisscrossed and painted his skin, kissing them with a small smile, but he moved away and groaning before he hid away in the bathroom. You sat on his lap, straddling his thick thighs and peppering his cheek and jaw with soft butterflies, but he rose from his seat with an apology and locked himself in his bedroom.
He wasn’t accepting your love, distancing himself from you in any situation, and it made you wonder, mind scattering between so many possibilities. Perhaps Simon, your sweet brother, had gotten sick of you, or maybe he was seeing someone else and didn’t want you anymore. Whereas the former made you question your faults and being, the latter made your throat close and mind grow blank. There was a big lump in your chest that lurched whenever your thoughts were filled with images of him seeing another person. It hurt in another way, the anger that boiled in your chest, the tears that clung to your lashes and the tremble in your body. You felt dejected and jealous, stewing in a pile of envious emotion and you hated it.
You loathed the way it made you feel and it broke you down, leaving you a sobbing mess in his arms. Simon looked like he was scared, shaken down to the bone when he watched you tear up, babbling about your worthlessness and failure.
“No. No, never—,” he choked back his panic, forcing it down to bring you back down, to bring you out of you mind, “Never, Sweets. I’m yours, always yours.”
“Then why are you pushing me away, Si?!”
He sighed, face scrunched in hesitation, looking as painful as it was fearful, but he hid his pain away, curling around you like a shield, protective and safe.
“I was afraid, Sweets,” he confessed, hos tone laced with shame, “What we have- what we are, isn’t normal. You know that, yeah?”
Despite sounding so sure of himself, there was a hint of uncertainty, a tremble in his voice.
“No, I don’t.”
Of course you wouldn’t, your father had fucked you both over so much, so horribly, that neither he nor you knew or felt like this incestuous relationship was bad. You were both delt a horrible hand, twisting your minds and morals into something people would consider taboo, but for you, it was safety.
“Will you kiss me, Si?”
He did, he kissed you slow and deep, embracing you on his bed, the sheets soaked with sweat and slick, and the room smelling like sex. Simon had distanced himself, sated his thirst with his hand because he didn’t want to corrupt you any further, but… but if that’s what you wanted, then how could he tell you no?
"guys I do not condone any of this in real life" "this is fiction" "consent is key. this is only fiction" "murder is bad irl" — I wish fanfic authors didn't feel like they had to clarify this in author's notes or else they might be accused of being abusers or worse (I admit that such disclaimers are also something I personally use for my own stuff because I feel like I had to make it clear). like... people used to not care if an author wrote dead dove fics because people used to understand that ao3 fics are not a reflection of someone's in real life views or morality in any way. people used to understand that fanfics mean what they mean; fan fiction. none of it is real. maybe it's purity culture that normalizes witch hunt and censorship in the past couple years, and therefore authors feel like they have to clarify that just because they write about violence or noncon stuff doesn't mean they're murderers or sex offenders in real life. and I think it sucks that these things (purity and cancel culture?) have made authors feel like they have to apologize for the art they created instead of being proud of their hard work and all the dedication they put into creating these art. artists should not have to feel like they have to apologize for creating art that isn't all rainbow and sunshine. artists should not have to be made to feel ashamed of their own art if it's not all rainbow and sunshine.
I don’t agree with the “you can write noncon and dark fics as long as you make sure your readers get the message that these things are bad” or “you can write noncon and dark fics if it’s your way of coping with your trauma” take either. because writers do not owe you anything. the message writers want to send to their readers — whatever that message may be, if there’s any message or moral of the story for readers to take from the stories at all — is none of your business. why writers write what they write is none of your business. remember “don’t like don’t read”. no one forces you to read anything you don’t like. dark and noncon fics are a form of creative writing and creative writing is a form of art. you can’t pressure artists into creating art that “fit your moral compass” nor can you apply your own moral compass to artists to determine if they can create dark art or not, if their reasoning behind creating dark art passes your moral compass. like… what artists create and why artists create are none of your business. and you don’t get to shame artists for creating art that you hate / art that disgusts you. what you can do is ignore the art because it clearly was not made for you and that’s okay. what isn’t okay is you harassing artists because you don’t like the things they created.
writers, embrace and be proud of your works. as long as all the trigger warnings are tagged properly, you have nothing to apologize for.
You've been kidnapped by the local butcher and he convinces you he's going to fucking eat you.
Dark!Ghost x fat fem reader drabble
CWs: dead dove, rape, dehumanization, gaslighting, bondage, undiscussed kink(?), animal play(?), threats and talk of cannibalism but no actual cannibalism
(A tidied up and extended ramble I subjected @391780 to on anon. Inspired directly from their post where Butcher!Simon draws a diagram of beef cuts on you.)
It’s pretty immediately obvious he’s a murderer. He’s probably a serial killer for all you know.
In reality, Simon doesn’t consider himself a serial killer, despite his body count. He’s just someone who doesn’t have qualms dealing with nuisances. He’s a retired vet, after you’d killed enough people, what’s a few more?
No, his kills were just business, practical. They were men who made the mistake of getting in his way, of being inconvenient. Most, anyway—there’s at least one or two whose only crime was being an especially annoying cunt. Sometimes, some people “jus’ need killin’”.
As a butcher, he does find the implication funny, but no, he’s not eaten any of the scum he’s off’ed. “Don’t serve ‘em up to customers, neither”. After all, Simon’s got far higher standards than that. They weren’t even fit for dog food and he has a reputation to uphold. No one can compete with his quality.
No, you’re nothing like them. You’re special.
Never in his life had he seen a prettier creature—and you’re absolutely prime. He’s salivating just looking at you, plump and oh so soft. He can see it in the way your skin wobbles gently as you move about. Simon couldn't find a straight line on you. And he’s looked. He’s been transfixed watching you, aching.
You live your life meandering obliviously, no brand in sight, not even a tag on your ear. He's surprised no one else snatched you up. Poor thing left to fend for itself ‘s cruel. Nothing else to it.
Wrangling you was simple, it’s not like your large form actually offered you anything towards your defense. It was easy, really. Your lack of instincts was staggering, it was even more shocking that you lasted this long, he almost couldn’t stop himself from laughing.
You were clueless to the danger, even when it was directly in front of you, it only endeared you to him. Your eyes roved over him, not paying him any mind, just carrying on about your undoubtedly inane business. Only when he was on you and it was too late did you start to kick up a fuss.
The look of panic on your face was just priceless. All this crying and babbling nonsense like, “What are you doing?!” and “Stop!”.
Simon's main concern was not damaging you too much, he was careful. Just a single huge bicep around your neck and any fight you had seemingly evaporated with fright. You're bent over in a headlock, his grip as rigid as a pillory, but he’s not applying enough pressure to actually choke you. You’re just forced helplessly to come along or be dragged.
Not that it would have mattered if you were too wild to be led, he would simply tighten his hold, and allow up a quick nap. He’d pull out the dolly, load up the truck and be on his way.
On the big stainless steel work table the metal stings you even through your clothes. Unfortunately for you, even that scant protection doesn't last. The sight of the shears was enough to paralyze you again, and with a handful of strategic snips, Simon rips your last vestiges of humanity from you. All your skin transforms to gooseflesh, shivering on the table, but your nipples is where his roaming gaze finally settles.
He’ll have to remember to adjust the heat later. After all, “‘s a bit early to start chillin’ you”, he’d chuckle. You were a bit of silly thing, he thought. Maybe it’d be a minute till you’d actually catch on.
You're his little prize. Simon will coddle you, give you plenty of softness and warmth. You’ll not want for blankets, pillows, and other such treats, but not a stitch of clothing will ever touch your skin again. There would be no hiding your nakedness.
“Clothes? Clothes ‘re for people, what y’ need clothes for?” he scoffed. You don’t make the mistake of thinking it’s a question, because he doesn’t want you to answer. A dog doesn’t answer “who's a good boy?” does he?
He’s measuring you, jotting things down. You think distantly that the pencil looks puny in his fist. While he's at it, he's feeling and squeezing every inch of you. You’re groped and prodded like some saran wrapped package of beef at the grocery store.
Only when you think there’s finally a reprieve, you’re being hogtied. You’re trussed up in practically half a roll of twine, fat bulging between the strands, desperate to escape its bite. Simon says it looks good on you, can’t resist taking one of your new little rolls between his fingers, giving you a teasing pinch. You struggle of course, but the terrifying man commands you to “Settle”, says the only thing your fussing will get you is rope burn.
He claps you on the ass affectionately, assuring you that the scratchy string is only temporary. He knows a guy for leather, does good work. All hand stitched. Simon will have a proper harness made for you. Something with a lot of d-rings. It will be more comfortable for you and he can situate you how he likes with minimal bruising or chaffing.
As he admires your skin, he’ll remark offhandedly that he’ll have to ""'ave somethin' from you" too. He’s not usually one to bother, but it’d be a travesty to waste hide like yours. Couldn’t find more supple could y’? He hasn’t decided what’ll be yet, he’ll need to do some maths to figure out how much material you'll make. Behind his mask and the façade of impassivity, he savors your reaction. That’d be about the first time your consciousness flees from you.
Simon will lay it on thick, praise how "well-marbled" you are. Delectable. So plump and well-fed, you can't blame him for any of this, really. He'll say something about kobe beef and taking good care of you. He’ll massage you daily, knead every inch of you between his huge oiled hands. He'd take his time, temple t' toes. You couldn’t get a knot in a muscle if you tried.
Your more delicate bits don’t escape his tender ministrations either. He takes painstaking work in rubbing your insides down with thick fingers, wringing orgasms from you until you're limp and still as the rest of the meat in his shop. Says it’s good for the flavor, will make you even sweeter.
It’s all completely horrifying, it has to be a nightmare. He says all this so casually, like he’s telling you the time of day. This man is truly completely deranged.
His hands are always on you, it’s never fucking ending. He's taken it upon himself that you never “exert” yourself and you have no choice in the matter. Bastard won’t even let your hands free to eat or bathe. He "grooms" you. Brushes your hair, trims your nails, cleans your teeth, brushes, lathers, rinses, dries, moisturizes your skin. It’s humiliating and you hate every second of it.
The juxtaposition is too much, the horror and absurdity of it all. All the restraints and manhandling, your looming demise, while insisting on soft surfaces for you, water temperature just right, food carefully curated and cut up just so. He won’t let anything happen to spoil the meat.
He doesn’t spare any expense on your “feed” either. You eat what he eats, might as well be eating off his plate. Albeit simple, it’s good food, you don't see a point in denying it. It's fresh and flavorful and to no one’s surprise it includes a lot of meat. Always from his shop of course, only the best for you.
He’ll bring out some new parcel every night for dinner, unfolding the brown paper wrapping, holding up to you to admire his work. “‘S a ribeye”. He goes on about the marbling, the even color of the meat. “Couldn’t find fresher” he’d say, "was only jus' bleedin' this mornin'".
You’re his captive audience. There’s nothing else you can do but warily watch him make dinner, even if seeing a blade in his hand gives your heart palpitations. Steak, sautéed mushrooms, jacket potatoes, roasted broccoli.
You’ve long since stopped fighting him when it comes to meals. Because it can always get worse. After being bent over on the floor, forced to eat off a dish without the use of your hands, you’d resigned yourself to the fact that eating off his fork was a sufferable compromise. Still, if he’s in a mood he won’t even allow that. You'll eat off his fingers, and he’ll laugh at your expense and chide you when you inevitably “make a mess”.
The food was prepared, but this time the kitchen knife didn’t leave his grasp. It wasn’t a steak knife. It was too big and not serrated, but that didn’t seem to bother Simon. It certainly bothered you. Its presence loomed like a guillotine in your peripheral.
He feeds you bites between his own. Every mouthful and he looks so pleased. You desperately missed his mask at meal times. At least then you couldn’t see his smug fucking face.
On the plate the steam billows and curls. The meat gives easily under your molars, practically melts in your mouth. Hot and rich and juicy, it’s basted in butter, with garlic cloves and sprigs of rosemary, seasoned with cracked peppercorn and flakey sea salt. It’s a touch rarer than you’d like.
You wish you were capable of escaping the horror of it all for even a second, pretend you were anywhere else, with anyone else.
Simon punctuated his first bite with a low rumble of approval, watching you with those dark, cavernous eyes. He’d continued in that way, a man content in silence.
”...you'll taste better.”
He waited until your last bite to say it, maybe that was mercy on his part. The meat transformed in your mouth, became sinewy and bitter. You couldn’t swallow, and went to spit it out. But he expected that apparently, was on you in a second. Giant rough hand sealed over your lips, practically enclosing the bottom half of your face, smooshing your cheeks up into your eyes.
“Chew.”
It takes longer than usual, but you try to obey. His hand hasn’t moved from your mouth.
“Swallow.”
His eyes move from yours to your neck, his thumb grazing your throat lightly, tracing the bite’s trajectory as you force it down. His eyes are back on you then.
With Simon’s free hand he deftly pierces the last drippy morsel off the plate with the knife, popping it between his scarred lips. The hand still on you moves, migrates to cup your jaw, gradually starting to squeeze. You don’t have any fight left and open before it becomes painful.
Fear paralyzes you again, when he brings the knife towards you.
The movement is slow, as if he’s actually concerned about frightening you. He’s holding it longwise, pointed off to the side.
Then it’s on your tongue.
He drags the flat of the blade’s length across the trembling muscle, leisurely, only moving it away to flip it and clean the other side, myoglobin discarded on your tongue
“They’ll say ’m ‘spoilin’ ‘er rotten’. Eatin’ off my own plate, sleepin' in my own bed, warm under my roof. Keepin’ you safe indoors. Such a sweet, tame thing, are you?”. He strokes your cheek, wiping at a drip at the corner of your mouth with a thumb before popping that in his mouth too.
Whenever Simon’s put up enough with your smart mouth, he enjoys the look of your wide wet eyes and your trembling lips stretched around a padded ring gag.
The sounds you make when gagged are special little nonsense noises, almost like you're trying to talk like a person would. Sweet, pitiful sounds. He also loves when wet, choked sobs that cascade out of your open mouth, forcing you to drool. “You’re so messy, sweet’eart. Nose runnin’, too.” Says you're leaking from practically every hole. Eyes, nose, mouth, cunt.
Sometimes, you might almost be fooled into thinking he feels sorry for you in those moments when you're hyperventilating and hysterical, or wailing so mournfully. He always hushes you when you're crying, pets and hold you, dries your face, as if he’s not the cause of your tears. Despite how much Simon adores the taste of them, adores the soft jingling of the little cow bell tied ‘round your throat when your whole body quivers with sobs, the stress will sour the meat. He’ll say as much, but surprisingly it doesn’t help calm you down.
If it was necessary, he's not opposed to sedation. After all, he's done the research to find one that won't affect your flavor. But most of the time, his solution to your despair is yet another thorough fucking. Dopamine to counteract the stress.
Simon forces the orgasms out of your body as easily as he forces his cock into it, you're utterly helpless to stop either. His livelihood is working with his hands and unfortunately he’s damn good at it. When all's said and done and you're spent, he’ll lightly chastise you for working yourself up, for fussing.
He loves the heft of you in his hands, weighs your heavy tits in his palms, grips your ample belly. Simon can't resist taking mouthfuls of you into his mouth, worrying your supple fat with his incisors. Your tits, ass, thighs, arms, belly, back fat, hell, your double chin. It doesn't matter, any squishy bit of you. You're always afraid he might be getting impatient, that he’ll take a bite out of you, but he never does. Simon says he's just sampling, maybe tenderizing you a little.
His favorite taste of yours is still between your legs. He has you thank him for being so careful there. Past you inner thighs and plump mons, the pressure of his teeth yields, feeling barely a graze.
He likes putting mirrors in front of you, says he wants you to see how lovely you are. Your hands are clipped together, chain snagged in one of the shop's many meathooks, just low enough that you don’t strain your shoulders or quite have to stand on your tiptoes.
He directs you to watch, popping the lid off of a permanent marker with a squeak.
He maneuvers you this way and that as he works, dragging the marker down your body. His lines are surprisingly clean considering his canvas is such a pliant, organic shape. Hand are as steady as a surgeon. The marker tickled terribly on skin, the ethanol smell burning your nose, making it hard to think.
It only took a minute to recognize what he was doing. Your skin itches under the felt tip. You flail, trying desperately to smear it, to muss his work, but the ink dries too quickly.
Simon wouldn't let you keep your eyes closed, so in that moment you were grateful for the onslaught of tears blurring your vision somewhat.
That day, he showed you all your different cuts, as if you cared, as if you were together enough to pay attention.
He tells you which are his favorite. Tells you which of his mates he’ll have over to enjoy you, ponders what pieces he’ll think they’ll like best. How to cook different cuts to get the best effect, that some cuts are naturally tougher and have to be cooked slowly, while the other cuts are tender and fatty, can be cooked at a higher temperature, quicker.
From the very beginning, he’s referenced the “Big Day”.
He’ll ask if you're excited over the shinnnnk of a knife against a whetstone. Simon always keeps his tools in order, clean and sharpened expertly, but he thinks he'll polish them up extra shiny for the occasion. To a mirror finish, so you can see yourself. You're so beautiful, it'd be a cryin' shame for you to miss it.
It’s been months now you’ve been with him and the day never comes.
...
You didn't dare question it.
But if you did, Simon would just chuckle, amused that you're so eager. Maybe he'll say that he decided he wants some milk from you instead.
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