“No one will know the violence it took to become this gentle”!reader and “I will handle the storm, for there will be sunshine afterwards”!Price
It’s the same case Price has seen a million times. Violent, hurt soldiers that just need to be seen as people. To be seen as a human. To be loved and receive warmth.
He’s been that violent creature before. Constantly clawing and biting to survive, not live. His fangs are just as sharp as the used to be. But they aren’t bared to just anyone anymore.
You’ve been through so much too soon. You forgot what it’s like to live peacefully and without struggle. You live in constant agony with your actions and past tormenting you. You yearn for the days of softness. You yearn to live.
Standing in a room with decimated bodies surrounding yours. You wouldn’t even be able to tell the difference between the two. Cold, unmoving, and just as unpleasant. Dragging the oxygen in and barely getting it out for god knows how long. You’re replaying it all in your head. Why? To remind yourself of the harm you cause? To convince yourself you have a purpose? To find that purpose? Who knows.
Price stands in-front of you, observing. He places his large hand on your cheek. He notices the way you flinch, he notices the way your hand flies to your knife, he notices the blood on your fangs.
In an instant, he’s ontop of you with a hand around your throat and your knife in his free one. Yet, the hand doesn’t squeeze, it holds. It holds you like you’re something. You don’t fight it. If anything you lean into it hoping it never goes away.
Pulse fast under his palm as he drags you up and out the room. The grip is so soft. So, comfortable.
Monster!141 that likes to take advantage of Ghost!Gaz’s invisibility. Liking to see you get fucked at angles never even considered before. He’s got you on the war room table spread out like you’re their salvation.
Soap likes to see your throat get fucked. Every way possible. Laying on the table with your head hanging off the edge, eyes rolling to the back of your head as your throat bulges rhythmically. Gaz’s cold precum numbing pleasantly so you can take him all the way to the base. Lashes clumping together from the tears that force themselves up with every time your gag reflex is pressed
On your knees, hands bunched in your lap because there's nothing to grab onto. Lips making such a perfect O to wrap around Gaz’s cock. Eyes darting around as your hair is gathered up into a perfect handle for control to be taken from you only to land on Soap as he pumps his cock to the sight of your pretty face looking so innocent yet depraved.
Something about the drool and tears and the slightly panicked look on your face as you try to ration your breaths gets him going. It’s a mess he’d never see unless it was done by Gaz.
Ghost is sat on his haunches beside the table to see that pretty pussy of yours gaping. It’s almost like when he’s finished fucking you but theres no time limit, no muscle trying desperately to clamp back down to normal. Able to see all the way down to your cervix that squishes every time Gaz jackhammers into you. Folds sticky, wet and swollen.
His favourite by far is when Gaz has you on your back, thighs squished up against your belly so nothing is in the way. Spongy, pink walls rippling down as the nth orgasms knocks through you. Pretty moans and mewls choking as you’re kept in place for more to be pried out. Sappy mixture of juices leaking down the cleft of your ass that has Simon wanting to lean in and lap it up.
He has and got smacked over the head for it.
Price just lives to see you confused and unsure. Left gasping and looking around as if that’ll help you know where Gaz’s will touch next. Anticipation mixing with just the slightest undercurrent of fear from the pure uncertainty of it all. It’s like a blind fold but better. You have your eyes but they’re useless, you’re helpless in a way that Price feeds on.
Loves to see your eyes go all wide as you get manhandled into new positions, never quite knowing what’s coming next. Can’t help but huff out a breath when you shriek at the feeling of groping your tits, Gaz’s laughter echoing in the hollowed air.
Just sitting back and watching as you try to squirm away from the cold tongue lapping at your over sensitive clit only to get pinned by an invisible force. Skin creasing and dimpling in, molding to Gaz’s touch.
rn I just need to be held by Ghost. i need it to be post-mission where it was such a shit storm and there was so many close calls that the adrenaline crash getting back to base is bone-crushing. the kind where when you lay down in your bed you can feel your soul just melting out through your pores. constantly wondering if you had died out there would it have mattered? who would've cared? noticed? anyone aside from the team that relied on your abilities? you came back to this base again- not to a mother or a husband or friend or even a fucking cat. no, you came back to this base where you’re just another number in a nameless room.
you know you’re not the only one who feels the pit in your lungs that slowly spreads its infection with each breath you take. it’s why Price is always out at the pub after a mission and why Gaz is always scratching for a new thing to spend the night with. all just trying to stave off that feeling that threatens to drown.
it’s how you find yourself in Ghosts room for the first time.
You doesn’t even realize how touch-starved you are until you feel your throat close up even just in anticipation of it. the click of the door, a flick of the lights, thin laces unravelling between your fingers as you pull your boots all lighting up every nerve in his body. fight or flight igniting at the same time. barely dampened by the bone deep want to be touched.
neither of you quite able to sooth that need naturally. unable to just go out to the bar and find someone willing to smooth away the mission like how everyone else could. it was easier this way. you already knew and trusted each other. with a stranger, he’d have to spend just as much of the time disarming them as you would enjoying himself.
doesn’t matter how dark the room is, you still hear that sharp hiss of air he sucked through his teeth when you settled down on the mattress next to him. part of you is wondering if he can hear your pulse pounding through your head.
two bodies squeezed into the small military-issued bed, scratchy blankets and all. and for the first time, you see Ghost hesitate. looking unsure.
worried.
you have to tuck into him, one leg slotting between his and the other curled over his hip. his hands hovering above where they should go. paralyzed by the feeling of warmth against his body.
his heart rabbits against his ribcage like a scared animal. a chained dog so used to its leash that once it’s unclipped and faced with freedom it freezes. as much as it hated that fucking yard there was comfort in its familiarity.
this was not familiar.
it takes some time for his strung-up muscles to settle. hand cradling the back of your head. your hands snaking around his wide waist to slide under his shirt. scratching circles with your cracked nails.
the gentle rise and fall of your chest against his being so soothing it makes him wonder if this is what infants seek when they cling to their mothers.
You left your heart in his jaws you realize a bit too late. pulsing and oozing. soft. vulnerable in ways you abandoned in your childhood bedroom among the stuffed animals and stained carpet.
you doesn’t even know that he defanged himself as soon as you walked into his room. maw bloody and forgiving as his body lets out shaky breaths to accommodate the splintering gap in his chest
when was the last time you was touched like this? in a way that wasn’t clinical or corrective? willingly touched as a human rather than as an embodiment of training and skills?
it's as scary as it is unpredictable. yet you and Ghost stay like that until morning. waking up to untangle limbs and shared, gooey viscera.
you walk out of that room pretending to not know what it sounds like when his heart slows or what his hands feel like carding through your hair.
just teammates when you walk out the door. strangers to each other's beds.
until that itch to be held like you matter comes up again.
Thinking about Simon with a girlie with agoraphobia. A sweet bird he met through a pen pal program between civilians and soldiers.
It started off so superficial and stilted. You tell him about your favourite foods, about your remote job, about the stray cat you’ve been trying to lure into domesticity. Surface level, like you’d been forced. Later, he learned that your therapist suggested this as a form of human contact.
Maybe it was the simpleness with which he replied, maybe it was the exasperation of all exposure techniques attempted, or maybe it was the bone-deep, clenching starvation of human contact that led to you spilling your guts into the letters. Personality in the swoops of your g’s and slashes of t’s. Inner workings laid bare for a faceless man who offered no judgment. Anonymity veils over you both like a confessional booth. Your words detailed a festering wound of loneliness that ate you from the inside out, drainage the colour of a pent-up rage for that which made you the way you were. Simon offered comfort in mutual struggle, the addiction genes laying in wait in his DNA that led him to wander over the lines of normalcy to obsession.
Offerings were made to one another as a form of thanks. You’d give tea bags, a wrapped-up sweet, a polaroid of a bedraggled cat sitting within arms reach of your window sill.
Simon became a scavenger for every little thing you gave him. Picking through like a vulture of the offerings of yourself, this deity who he knew existed only for himself. Not a soul knew you the way he did.
Flowered plucked from cracks between concrete, foreign pop bottle lids, a chicken scratch drawing of a pond at sunrise were the meagre offerings he gave back. You were sequestered in that mind of yours just as much as the four walls of your apartment kept you in place but that was okay. Simon could just bring his world to you. You always had him thinking about the next letter, the next piece of his life he could give to you.
You were such a grateful little thing after all. You always took his gifts and sent back your thanks with more of your own.
But now as he stood clutching a soiled collection of wildflowers in his fist he didn’t quite understand the confusion and fear in your eyes as he stood on at your front door.
cw: sex magic yet again, references to previous encounters
Researcher!Reader who has completed her research at the fortress and needs to move on. Find new monsters, find some form of publisher, get more supplies. You say you’ll come visit but the monsters have grown used to your presence. And you theirs. Which is why Price writes a little sigil on the back of your neck before you leave, clawed tip raising the skin just slightly. He tells you it’ll be alright, you won’t have to miss much.
You don’t know what he’s talking about until you go to sleep that night and are filled with pornographic dreams of your time at the fortress. Memories replaying from your watery eyes as Soap fucks his cock down your throat, cooing at how you drooled all over his balls. Of Gaz fucking you against a table, no form but your pussy gaping from the invisible cock spearing into you, cold hands pawing at your tits through your clothes. Of you half brain dead as Ghost bounces you on his cocks, hands gripping your waist harshly like he was fucking a fleshlight. Of your eyes rolling into the back of your head as you ride Price, hands gripping his horns for leverage while he wraps his thin tail around your thin little throat squeezing just hard enough for your thoughts to muddle.
You wake up every morning drenched in sweat, wetness staining your pyjamas before you learned to just sleep naked. Every night filled with dreams that left your thighs shaking and you cumming in your sleep. Too real to just be wet dreams but not good enough to compare to the real thing.
When you come back to the fortress you’re already crying and whining before Price is touching you. So pent up and desperate. Presenting your fluttering cunt so he can just take you proper. Please please please
And who is he to not indulge you.
He just needs to get you to agree to a new belly sigil. Something to keep you there long term.
Blue pls pls PLS continue with the coma Johnny and his angel! I've been religiously rereading it and I need more of them to rot my brain with! (/□＼*)
Pls don't take this as me forcing you to write another part if you don't want to!
Take care ><
You have no idea how many half scrawled out ideas i have for that series in my notes, I'm hoping with this new semester I'll have more classes that will inspire more ideas that will actually feel good enough lol
right now I'm thinking I'm thinking like maybe theres an accusation of stealing medication or something to black mail angel further into not being able to escape?
then tensions are up high but then angels birthday comes around and johnny puts to work all that he learned in the time under angels care in the coma. he knows the secret wants, favourite foods, childhood movies. and maybe it breaks down angel a little bit? idk, given the whole shitty boyfriend situation I wouldn't be surprised if theres some self-worth issues there regarding people putting in effort. until johnny just does it??? perfectly??? and has angel thinking that they would be greedy to ask for anything more or to refuse any future advancements.
clearly this is in my head alot and I have so many things to ramble about but nothing concise to post.
nosferatu is abt to be my number 1 hear me out. man said “you are my affliction” “i cannot be sated without you” “i am an appetite, nothing more” HELLO?????
thinking about toxic!ex!simon.....
The banging on the door is relentless, a pounding that vibrates through the frame and straight into your chest. It’s raining so hard that it sounds like the sky itself is cracking open, drowning out his muffled voice on the other side. But you hear him anyway, broken and raw. “Let me in. For fuck’s sake, please let me in.”
Your stomach twists. You don’t want to see him. You shouldn’t see him. But your hand moves to the lock on instinct, and when you open the door, the sight of him makes your breath catch.
Simon is on the edge of ruin. Rain streaks down his face, plastering his hoodie to his skin, his hair curling and dripping. His mask is gone, leaving him exposed in a way you’ve never seen before. His eyes—wild, bloodshot, hollow—meet yours, and for a moment, neither of you says a word. He's on the verge of self-destruction.
Then, before you can speak, he collapses to his knees.
It’s not graceful. It’s not controlled. It’s desperate. His body hits the ground with a thud, his palms catching against the threshold like they’re the only thing holding him together. You take a step back, expecting him to get up, to say something sharp or clipped, but he doesn’t. He leans forward, and...
He crawls.
He crawls inside like a wounded mutt, breathing ragged and uneven. His massive hands dragging against the floor until they find your legs. You try to move back, but he follows, until his forehead is pressed to your stomach, his massive frame trembling as he clutches at you. His fingers dig into your hips, holding onto you like he's drowning, his head tilting back to look up at you.
You try to pull away, but his grip tightens. “Don’t,” he growls, the sound guttural, primal. The look in his eyes is feral—something broken and starving and so goddamn human it makes your heart ache.
“Y'don’t get it,” he spits, his voice trembling. “I can't be sated without ya, love, don’t y'see? You’re in me. You’re fuckin' inside me, and no matter what I do, I can’t tear y'out.”
He buries his face against you again, messily planting his lips against any ounce of skin open to worship. “I’ll fuckin' beg. I’ll get on m'knees—between y'thighs—every night if I have to. Just—don’t leave me again. Please. I’ll fuckin' die without you.”
You inhale sharply, your hands hovering at your sides as his shoulders shake. The rain drips from him, pooling on your floor, but he doesn’t care. He clutches at you tighter, his voice dropping into something dark and guttural. “I'm an appetite, nothing more. I was made to need ya, to crave ya. And I can’t—” His voice cracks, and he presses his face harder into you, his breath hot and ragged through his sobs. “I can’t fuckin' live without you, baby—please.”
You should push him away, should tell him to leave, but instead, you stand frozen, overwhelmed by the storm of him—the raw hunger, the consuming despair, the way he folds himself into you, desperate to make himself whole again. He’s feral, ruined, a shadow of himself, and all of it is for you.
Summary: You didn't know hate until Johnny MacTavish. (Or a really big build-up to cuddles and smut).
Warnings: Implied anxiety disorder/depressive disorder, self-isolation, language, incredibly shitty communication and social competence.
It was supposed to be a one-shot.
You didn’t know hate until Johnny MacTavish.
He bought the only house within half a mile, the one you expected to stay silent and empty ‘til death did you part. So, you had reason to dislike him from the start. But you were raised right, and you pushed down the snarling hermit in your soul to be a good, friendly neighbor.
The first meeting was fine, even if he was a boombox of a human being.
“Neighbor? Oh, aye! The hermit? Sorry. Heard about you when I toured the place last month.” His eye lands on the plate of cookies you’ve brought to welcome him. “Those all for me?”
You made small talk at the door, swapped names, and set the groundwork for a reliable, limited relationship as polite people who just happened to live in close proximity.
Then the first snow fell.
You spied him outside, shoveling the shared drive that led up the hill. He cleared it all, which was kind, if a little stupid. The weather system promised another two inches by midafternoon, so everything would be solid white again before sunset. Still, not your problem.
But. He was shirtless. Ripped as fuck and shirtless.
As the wind flung each shovelful of snow back in his face, the powdery flakes stuck and melted on steaming skin. Muscles flexed as he made a spectacle of himself, and your thoughts turned to strategy and available resources.
You wrapped your palms around your ugly, handmade mug and sighed, sipping hot chocolate and wishing you’d gotten a neighbor with at least two scoops of common sense.
When he didn’t appear with his shovel the next morning, you knew your foreboding prophecy had come to pass.
You brought out the stock pot, fished out packs of frozen produce harvested from your garden, and sacrificed your last bag of chicken breasts. The skeleton saved from an old rotisserie bird joined the ingredient army. Might as well go all-in. A man with that many muscles needed bone broth to recover.
Since you didn’t know if he was a picky eater, you minced the garlic and onions small, even when your eyes burned to the point you had to stop for a break. You let the aromatics brown, added celery, carrots, potatoes, and fistfuls of fresh herbs. The precious seasonings survived the winter under grow lights and protective sheeting on your dining room table.
You doubted your neighbor would appreciate this gift for everything it was, but whatever he did as an idiot neighbor would be leagues better than the presence of a rowdy ghost.
When the chicken was tender and the broth tasted like home, you poured it into individual portions and packed them in a canvas bag with a loaf of bread, a box of tea, a jar of local honey, and a thermometer. It wasn’t terribly heavy, but the cold froze your fingers through your gloves. Your hand was cramping by the time MacTavish answered the door, red-nosed, pale, and bleary-eyed.
He let you in, mumbling a scratchy-voiced welcome, and if you’d known what that conversation would incite, you would’ve let him waste away like the families you failed playing Oregon Trail.
“Eat one now and keep the rest in the fridge.” You stack the single-serve containers in the fridge as you speak, sure he won’t remember the minutiae of your instructions. The last you pop in his microwave. He’s staring at you with feverish eyes, confused and helpless like a sick dog left on the side of the road.
Everything comes out of the bag, lining his counter so he can see them – and hopefully remember he has them. The thermometer comes out last.
“If your fever is over 104 in the morning, call the doctor. I’ll drive you if you need me to.”
That glassy stare isn’t shifting. The man doesn’t even blink.
“Did you get all that?”
He clears his throat. The action and sound are both strangely slow in his exhausted state, and you’re determined not to feel bad for him.
“Aye.” Finally, he blinks. “Eat the soup. Watch for 104.”
Good enough.
“Okay.”
The microwave beeps, you pull out the soup, leaving him to fetch a spoon from wherever the hell he keeps them. You don’t wait for him to show you out. “Take care of yourself.”
He didn’t call for help, and you took your turn shoveling the drive with proper protection after the last wave of flurries passed.
The next time he saw you in passing – you were returning home and he was just leaving – he let you know your soup was delicious, that the bread was amazing, and the honey did wonders for his throat. He never returned your containers.
Ah, well. They were replaceable.
Then the next snow came, and the dumb bitch went shoveling shirtless again.
It wasn’t as much snow, and it didn’t take him half as long, but you steamed, glaring from the safety of your kitchen window. You refused to replace your meal prep supplies again. And local honey was expensive. The brat could freeze and die. Something about taking a horse to water and all that shit.
You drank your coffee black that morning, just to make a point to no one in particular.
The man didn’t know how to take care of himself, and he had no idea how to winter-proof his home.
His pipes froze. You brought buckets, old towels, bottled water, and the number of an excellent plumber. Then you explained why he should pay attention to the forecast and let faucets drip to keep the water moving. You told him to open the cabinets under sinks so heat could combat the chill along exterior walls.
His truck’s battery succumbed to the cold. You gave him a jump and escorted him to town to make sure he didn’t get himself stranded.
When he didn’t keep things stocked and tried to panic-shop before a big storm, discovering that small town shelves couldn’t meet demand, you shared staples from your pantry.
He didn’t have more than two cheap blankets in his living space, so when the holidays rolled around you gave him your latest assemblage of granny-squares. And a scarf.
He gave you burnt cookies – “Biscuits” – in return.
(And a half-empty bottle of whiskey.)
He never remembered to drag his trash down to the main road.
And gods help you if the power went out, because the man had no generator, very little in his pantry, and rarely more than a quarter tank of gas in his ride.
He was careless. Clueless. Nearly helpless.
What were you supposed to do? You couldn’t leave him to his fate. It was unneighborly and inhumane.
He made you angry. But you didn’t hate him until his friend moved in.
A few months into his residence, you went to Johnny’s door to ask if he needed anything from town before the next storm shadowed the forecast, and a stranger came to the door.
A hulking monster with a skull painted over his balaclava.
The doorway shrank around his broad shoulders, and he ducked when he stepped out. You weren’t sure if he entirely needed to, but you understood the urge – like an adult stepping out of a child’s playhouse. Scarred knuckles wrapped around the doorknob, and you knew his grip would swallow you whole by the way it engulfed the brass handle.
Animal instinct jarred you. Every hair from the base of your skull to the end of your spine stood on end as you tried to smell the air, listen to the wind, spot the predator’s intent before it was too late.
You didn’t have a problem with people balaclavas. You’d worn one the other day when you were shoveling the drive, but this looked less like protection and more like a threat.
Was he robbing your neighbor? Had a serial killer come to town? Oh, fuck.
You took a step back, reaching for your phone because you didn’t carry a weapon, especially not on a grocery run, and it was the closest thing you had to help.
“You the neighbor?”
He asked so casually, vaguely irritated, but relaxed. It wasn’t the voice of a man who’d just been caught committing a felony, and you took a second to look beyond the stranger’s mask (and size). There was a mug in his hand, and he wore a t-shirt with sweats. His socked feet lingered on the front step, just shy of the blue road salt and crisped ice. Not robbery gear. More like a… houseguest?
Your neighbor never had guests before.
It caught you so off guard your brain short circuited. He had always been a lone, helpless figure. Made sense he’d have friends, though. You couldn’t imagine he’d survive anywhere long without someone looking out for him.
You were still a little irritated that your neighbor had invited his own friend to his own house on his own property without informing you, but that was just the recluse inside snarling at a new face. Or half of one.
And – well – manners.
Holding out a mittened hand, you introduced yourself, adding, “I stopped to see if Johnny needed anyth-”
“No.” He shut you down so fast you reeled another step back. “Don’t need anything.”
He closed the door and that was that.
Sun glittered on the season’s collection of snow, a frozen fairyland that wouldn’t entirely melt until spring. Then there would be roads washed out, and mud, and you’d need to teach Johnny flash flood safety and…
It didn’t compute. Johnny was still home, so surely he’d pop out with an explanation.
You waited.
But he didn’t.
The absolute fuck?
Your spinning thoughts kept you trapped in your head for a solid minute, processing what had happened, what was implied, and what that meant for your neighborly relationship. Even when you managed to move, drive to town, and run your errands, the interaction prickled in your mind like a splinter.
You must’ve done something wrong.
Aged fluorescent lights strobed out of time with your cart’s shrieking wheels. You discovered your list wasn’t in your pocket. It waited at home, next to a pen to add Johnny’s requests. You’d already added things you doubted he’d think to ask for, and it would take time to pick apart your needs. The list wouldn’t have saved you, even if you’d remembered it.
Three bags of flour went into your cart. That was fine. They’d keep, and baking was a good way to combat cabin fever (it warmed the house as a bonus).
Two gallons of milk.
Wait.
No.
You put one back, self-conscious. A young mother with her baby stood just behind you, and an old woman was reviewing her coupons across the aisle. You refused to make eye contact, convinced you’d catch them watching. Did they see? Were they worried about your germs on the product you put back? Did they think you were too broke to buy what you needed? Maybe they thought you’d just broken up with your boyfriend or something.
You counted the squares in the linoleum as you marched away from the refrigerators’ humming. One less source of white noise. It didn’t help as much as you’d hoped. The real buzzing roared inside your skull.
Johnny was a pain in the ass, but at least he was friendly. He wasn’t considerate, but he always thanked you. His friend was a whole different beast. Unfriendly. With a spare set of teeth snarling at the world.
The stranger hadn’t even introduced himself. Was he staying long? Moving in? What was he to Johnny? That question alone would answer so many others.
Because you’d never seen him interact beyond basic business with the mechanic, you realized you had no idea of his sexual orientation. Was he gay? Bi? Pan?
His shirtless shoveling shenanigans annoyed you, yes, but you’d unconsciously granted him a little leeway, assuming it had to do with misguided masculine showmanship. The rooster strutting where the hen could see. The dumbass alpha male proving he was a good, strong provider who was also quite nice to look at.
Clearly you were wrong, and in retrospect, you couldn’t see him as anything but a narcistic dipshit in need of training wheels.
You’d thought, maybe, he even liked you. As a friend? A comrade against the cold? As something.
But you were just a stop-gap. Useful.
Convenient.
Until his real friend joined him.
You found your attention unraveling like a cheap sweater. No matter how hard to you dried to darn the holes, you couldn’t keep up with the loose thread undoing all your conscious measures. It was quickly becoming one of those days when you convinced yourself your therapist had lied about everything.
When you messed up, even in your head, everyone knew.
If they didn’t say otherwise, you were annoying everyone in the room. If they did say otherwise, they were just being polite.
You weren’t likeable, not loveable, and the minute you weren’t useful you should make yourself scarce. Otherwise, things would get awkward, and no one wanted that. You could be the adult. You could hack off a limb and smile about it.
It didn’t hurt, and even if it did, it shouldn’t, because you didn’t have a right to that feeling.
Alright. Fine.
You realized, just as you joined the line for the cashier, that you’d forgotten matches and sugar. They’d been on your list. But someone joined the line behind you, and unspoken social rules that probably didn’t exist shackled you in place. Too late. You’d look stupid. You’d bother someone. Oh well. You’d just have to make another trip. Soon. But not too soon. Now there were two sets of eyes watching you from the connecting drive, and you didn’t want to give them reason to gossip and laugh and assume…
Your pile of groceries looked too small on the conveyor belt. Roughly half what they’d been lately. Would the cashier notice? You were sure she did. The way she recited your total sounded disappointed. Was she counting on you buying more? Were you hurting the employees’ holiday bonus? Shit. Fuck.
The bags felt too heavy. Too light. You forgot your reusable sacks at home, and the plastic dug guilt and accusations into the crease of your palms. On top of everything else, you were killing the planet.
You drove home.
Along the river. Through the trees. Up the hills to your corrupted sanctuary.
At least you didn’t need to make a second trip to bring in all the shopping. Your haul landed on the counter, you threw the damned milk in the fridge, and you realized, as you opened the pantry, that you already had four bags of flour. Two all-purpose, two for bread. Because you’d planned to bake for two.
The flour hadn’t been on your list.
And there was no room for it.
Your lip wobbled, and you bit it ferociously, chewing it until the texture changed and bits of skin started peeling.
It wasn’t a problem. You liked being prepared. You’d dump it in one of the emergency storage totes you kept in the hall closet and be ready when something went wrong.
You did just that, popping open the plastic lid and layering the flour over dry lentils, black beans, and shelf-stable cartons of broth. You decided to add more baking supplies to the list. Even if the power went out you could use the wood-burning stove in the living room to make griddle cakes. Maybe even soda bread.
There. Yeah. That wasn’t so bad. A silver lining.
As you returned to the kitchen, brainstorming ways to atone for the plastic bags you’d used, the scent of coffee wafted down the hall. Which was strange. Because you hadn’t put the moka pot on. You rushed in, frowning.
The old drip machine you only used for company burbled in the corner, and the groceries sat precariously on the corner, shoved aside by the beast who’d wandered through your unlocked door.
A tall, mohawked figure groped, shoulder-deep, in your cabinets.
MacTavish.
The Scottish mumbling would’ve tipped you off even if you weren’t so familiar with his figure (and hair, and limited wardrobe).
Your angst tasted bitter as you swallowed it down. You needed space for the feelings popping like firecrackers in your chest.
Relief. Hope. Dread.
He was in your space without invitation, and with the morning you’d just had, you felt anything but comfortable. Either you’d jumped the gun, or he was bringing a delayed apology for his friend.
“Johnny? What are you doing here?”
He smiled over his shoulder as he pulled two cups down from the shelf. One with your college logo and your prized ugly mug.
“Hello, neighbor!” He cackled, laughing at his own joke. “Wanted to give you a heads up and have a chat. My friend’s come to stay with me.”
Friend? What flavor of friend?
“I know. We met this morning.”
“Aye. Real barrel o’ sunshine, isn’ he?”
“If you say so.”
You wanted to be nice. You wanted to be his friend, too. But you weren’t, and you’d worked so hard to be a good, reliable person he could depend on in a new town – you were drained.
“His name’s Ghost.”
Most people grew out of their edgelord status by their early twenties. Ghost –with his skull balaclava and gruff voice – seemed better fit for the emo table of a suburban high school cafeteria than the adult world.
Johnny kept prattling, making an introduction for someone who wasn’t even there. “Told him all about you! He was impressed. Smacked me over the head about the pipes and said we’d go into town for a generator before the next big snow.”
“Hard to predict the next big snow.”
“Aye. He said that, too.”
If Ghost could keep your insights out of his mouth, you would appreciate it. It felt like he was stealing something from you, and you found yourself shifting from foot to foot, arms crossed, waiting for something terrible to happen.
And it did.
Gesturing as he described his old buddy and new housemate, his elbows danced around your kitchen like battering rams. First, he struck a cabinet, which hurt him more than the wood. He laughed it off. Kept talking. You didn’t need to say a word. By that point, you probably couldn’t even if he left space to speak.
For the life of you, you couldn’t riddle out what his visit was for. It was exhausting. He never chattered so much when you brought food or showed him how to keep his home in one piece. Ghost must make him very happy. His joy made you anxious.
His arm wide, indicating the views he’d fallen for and not the practical considerations of living in the goddamn woods on a goddamn mountain, and you watched in slow motion as his forearm caught your ugly mug’s handle.
It spun, wobbling to the edge of the counter, and before you could move, it plummeted.
A bad day instantly became your worst in years.
It must’ve made a sound when it hit, but you didn’t hear it. Or didn’t remember it. You didn’t remember going to the floor after it, either.
Your mug was in pieces, and when you pulled them to safety, wrapped tight in your fist, the glazed edges cut deep. It was such an ugly little thing. Your ugly little thing. You’d made it in one of those sip-and-spin pottery classes with your pals before you stopped going to see people face-to-face.
The mug wasn’t a friend. It was all of your friends. It was the fun you, the one who went out and did things, and moved through life like a real, entire person.
It practically exploded when it hit the tile. Some pieces were bigger than others, but there were dozens of them. Glittering chips and flecks that you knew you’d be finding with your feet through the rest of the winter.
There was no fixing it. It hurt. You were bleeding. Red oozed up between your knuckles and snaked down your wrist.
“Oh, shite! Shite, shite, shite. Are you alright? Here, let me –”
You didn’t want him to touch it again. Didn’t want him to touch you and act like he gave a fuck. This was a big, ugly feeling bubbling up inside, and if he didn’t dislike you yet, he would when he saw all the tears and snot.
A pretty crier you were not.
And no one wanted to see that, or deal with it, or cope with someone else’s messy emotions.
“It’s fine. I’m okay.” You grit your teeth and smiled through them. “But I need to clean this up, and I still have groceries to put away. How about you get your friend settled and we can talk another time, okay?”
“Are you sure?” His attention was fixed on the blood. Bright red was such an alarming color. You could understand.
“Yeah. Just a little scratch. Promise. But I can’t play host and clean myself up.”
His neck went stiff, and his eyes flicked from your face to the floor. Several times. Like he was having an argument with himself. But in the end, he listened, nodded, and got back on his feet from where he’d knelt in front of you.
“If you insist. But we’re right over there if you need anything, aye?”
“I know.”
Finally, he left.
You got up and locked the door behind him. If you’d taken time to do that before you put away the groceries none of this would’ve happened. You would still have your mug and you wouldn’t be on the floor, crying and cradling the remains of something that mattered to you.
-----------------------
He kept coming over when he needed things. Usually after Ghost’s truck rumbled down the drive. Sometimes he wanted advice. Sometimes he needed help. Usually he took tools and supplies he should’ve bought for himself.
You put your curtains to good work. You couldn’t remember a time you drew them so often. If he knocked, you’d answer, but the curtains were a good deterrent. Not foolproof, but something that gave you a little more power over your privacy.
Long jaunts into town have become escapes from your own home. Better the eyes of strangers – fleetingly painful – than the paranoia of sitting under glass where your neighbors might read your habits and foibles by the way the lights turn on and off through the night, might judge your messy hair through the kitchen window as you wash the dishes. Might, might, might. There were terrible possibilities in all that potential.
They were always there. One ready to freeze you out, the other hanging on your apron strings like a teenager who just got his first place. The conflict rubbed over your nerves like a match on a boot heel. Too much, too fast, and you’d combust.
So you found a lot of reasons to go into town. You remembered how much you liked the library, the joy of a cinnamon roll someone else baked, and hot coffee that didn’t come with a side of flashbacks.
The forecast predicted heavy snow overnight, and you made a day of grocery shopping, collecting novels from the library, and avoiding your neighbor’s last-minute requests.
You barely noticed the teens rushing out of the parking lot as you left your final stop, canvas bag loaded with enough media to keep you entertained through the storm of the century. No windows were broken. No key marks scuffed the paint. If they committed any mischief, it was minor.
Gas theft didn’t cross your mind until your engine quietly gave out and your car rolled to a stop between Nowhere and Nothing.
Understanding dawned with grudging revulsion. Like looking at the toilet and realizing it wouldn’t flush.
The little shits had siphoned your tank.
You smacked the steering wheel, cursing.
So much for the benefit of the doubt. You couldn’t escape. Everyone everywhere just wanted to use you.
But it was fine. Everything would be fine. You were always prepared in case someone fucked you over. Your wellbeing was your responsibility, after all.
Climbing out of the warm cabin, you headed to the back and pulled out the emergency gas can.
The red plastic was shockingly light. You didn’t realize until you’d already thrown your weight into the yank. Unbalanced, you tottered, and your heel skidded over ice.
The snow cushioned your fall, and you stared blankly into the white limned branches overhead as you tried to process the last five seconds. Things like this happened to idiots. They did not happen to you. Careful, cautious you with your backup plans and reserves.
You had simply made a mistake. Somewhere. Somehow. You’d find an explanation.
When you sat up, still in a state of shock, you examined the can, expecting signs of a mouse, or a crack, or…
An I.O.U. was taped to the back.
You knew the handwriting all too well.
That shitting little…
The snow arrived. Silence swallowed the mountain, and the gloaming snuffed the last of the sun’s warmth.
You sat alone on the side of the road, well aware that no one would come up this way for hours. Days maybe.
You had made a mistake.
You made your neighbor chicken soup.
Your nose burned, and you sniffed. Hot tears rolled down your face, burning as they went, and you wiped at them furiously. The wool of your mittens chafed your cheek. Your lip wobbled, and you hurled the empty can into the woods.
cw: 18+, choking, implied usage of sex magic, vaguely drugged sex but its consenual(?), fem!reader
Researcher!Reader who finds herself in the company of a handsome man. Rugged yet soft in the right places just enough to seem genuine.
You know it’s a ruse. A careful one, complex and intricate that started with too convenient food you scrounged in the panty and continued on to the still simmering fireplace nestled in the neglected library.
Traced with an almost discernible magic. Something to disarm the honest of their inhibitions and logic. You’re too experienced to not notice. But too curious to not play along, letting your head get spun into mush as the handsome stranger flickers in firelight.
Demon!Price that has you in his lap doing all the work. Leaned back in the armchair just watching you work yourself down on his girth. Hands tracing appreciatively over the lovely vessel you’ve sacrificed to him oh so willingly. Tail whipping lazily behind him as he watches those pretty tits jump with every movement.
Every ridge and vein was a tendril into your head, stirring up any possible hesistantion till you were bouncing yourself on his cock. An itching heat simmering in your belly just screaming for you to cum. Once isn’t enough. Nor is twice.
Your thighs are slick and sticky against his when you peel off. Hands clenched around his curled horns for leverage as you pry yourself up. Pussy squelching as you slammed back down again. Raise red crescents of blood line your hips as Price helps you move. While hand encompassing your hip as he fucks you on him. Your own personal dildo.
“You said you wanted to learn, explore the unknown yeah dovie?”
A smoke-laced chuckle left his mouth at how eagerly you nodded. So keen for his praise. Not even knowing what you were agreeing to.
Price is propping you up in his hands to give those soft legs of yours a break. Fucking up into your sopping cunt while his tail curls around your throat. Forcing your back to arch and pop those pretty tits out so he has something to drag his tongue over.
He can feel the way your pulse jumps, heart rabbiting in your chest as the cloying arousals cut with an undercurrent of fear. Of what if? For a moment he sees a crack, sees the young but naive researcher who is out of your depth. Nothing could prepare you for what you’ve set yourself up into. Why was a sweet thing like you out here in the first place? Curiosity? Something to prove?
Tears broke into your waterline as you panted, trying to keep going even as your muscles trembled and seized. Desperate eyes turned to him and who was he to say no?
The rough pad of his thumb pets at your clit while he croons at you, feeling you clamp up already.
“Are you going to write about this in that journal? Educate the world about what it’s like to fuck a demon? Hm?”
When you don’t answer, throat too stuffed with moans and gasps he fucks up into you. Tip bruising that soft cervix of yours. He keeps moving even as you cum, only stopping when you’re trying to squirm away from the overstimulation.
A forked tongue slicks over your ruddying cheek when fat tears start to spill from your waterline. Arms cradling over your body as he tucks you closer. Drinking in the storm of emotions swirling through your body. So strong it’s like they have a physical presence. It’s so easy to take a peak in your head as you twitch and melt through the after shocks.
Whatever Price finds has him pressing a kiss to your crown, thinking of how what he could say to let him place a sigil on you.
Loser!Reader who can’t quite get socializing down. Can’t quite figure out how to make a joke land, doesn’t know what qualifies as small talk or what is too much detail. Who fidgets in your seat because you doesn’t know what to do with your hands and always looks a little panicked because you don’t know what the right amount of laughter is or now much eye contact is supposed to be used
Toxic!Kyle is the complete opposite. He loves bringing you out. Being a social butterfly he is, why wouldn’t he bring out his sweet little thing? Like a prized horse you stand there and smile as he drags you around. Only to end up on someone's couch sitting there kind of looking like you’re a part of the conversation that’s happening next to you when you haven’t said a word yet.
He knows how others look at the pair of you. So different. You’re something to be met with pinched brows and polite smiles, darting eyes and never quite sitting alone with. Its like everyone can tell theres something just a little bit off about you. Setting off their radars as something odd. Something he is so kind to put up with.
Its like they’re all in on some form of secret language that you aren’t privy to. You say something and you see how Kyle looks over the rim of his glass to one of his buddies. Inside jokes clipping you enough that you know there's something you don’t understand but it’s never enough to actually understand.
You’re his pet project. Someone he’s improved, upped in quality by simply daing you. Yes he loves you, god he does, he loves your niche little references and the way you move your hands when you’re passionate. He loves how you ramble till you’re out of breath and how embarrassed you get when he has to redirect you in a conversation. He loves bringing you out to see you flounder and get so worked up, coming to him with desperate eyes and too shallow of breaths.
You’re tugging at his sleeve trying to prompt him into leaving, trying to whisper about feeling overwhelmed, head on a swivel for every noise, feeling eyes burnt into your skin.. He just brushes you off if you’re lucky. Other times saying “You can’t handle one night out for me? We do everything on your terms, can’t you just do this for me?”
It’s only when you’re holding back tears, panting into your hands outside that he finally joins you. Ushering you into the car, cooing bout how “you should’ve just told him that you were feeling this bad.”
Gets you home and into bed. Cradling your face in his hands while peppering nicotine stained kisses into your skin. “You did so good tonight.” “Wasn’t it fun?” “I’m so glad you came with me.” Stuffed knuckle deep with his fingers as he coaxes an orgasm out of you as a reward.
He doesn’t let you sleep until you’re agreeing with him, nodding your head that you enjoyed yourself. Nerves tugged raw yet he just keeps playing till he gets what he wants. You all mushy and sensitive from the rollercoaster of emotions of the last few hours. Like a puppet with its joints unhinged but still jerking to its strings. Doing anything for his reassurance after you embarrassed him in front of his buddies.
for work I get to do mask fits for respirators (think gas mask lookin things) for blue-collar guys and one of the tests I say "shake your head like a dog"
and the guy I'm testing does it but the test fails, okay whatever
tell me why a buddy of his swings by behind me and says " you gotta bark too. doesn't work if you don't"
and why does this fucking man looks me dead in the eye and goes "woof"
You’re a researcher whos specializing in monsters and have some….. unorthodox methods.
You find yourself wandering down cracked cobble stone, broken fences and overgrowth forestry on either side. Fog rolling in thickly like some ominous warning for your journey ahead. Yet you keep on going, soles clicking on the stone and cloak shifting around with every step.
Before you stands a behemoth of stone and metal work. A grand fortress at one point perhaps. Now it lay abandoned yet you theorised it was teeming with unordinary life forms. And so far out no one would bother you while you performed your research now would they?
cw: 18+, ghost sex, invisible, wedgie(?)
Researcher!Reader who follows a voice in the abandoned fortress, chasing it into an old war room. Whipping your head around as you try to find the entity you barely saw glimpses of.
Ghost!Gaz who finds the pretty little researcher wandering through the ruins and knows he has to get at you fast if he wants to be first. Plus he’s so much nicer than all the other guys :((
“I’ve been so lonely here.” A voice purrs at your ear, a presence suddenly behind you. “You’ll keep me company won’t you?”
You don’t even know how it ended up like this.
Bent over the war table with your cheek squished against the grimy war table, journal abandoned with the pen still clamped between your fingers. Ink scrawled down the page as the thoughts got fucked out of your head.
And the hands, so many hands. Cupping and pinching and groping. Six is what you concluded initially but with how utterly covered you are there has to be more. Phasing between the thick, warm layers of clothing to send body wracking shivers from the cold. Two dimpling into the fat of your ass to keep you open for him. Another thumbing over your rim just to see you jump when he presses too hard. One cupping your nape to keep you pinned against the table.
Not that you were going to move. For research's sake of course.
You can’t even tell if you’re shivering or shaking from the fucking he’s giving you
“You should be a lot more afraid, little lamb.” He grins as he looks down at your screwed up face. Punctuated by the choked moan you let out when he tugs at the waistband of your panties, tightening the fabric to rub against your needy little clit.
Cock spearing you open against the table. Fully clothed, fabric barely disturbed but your pussy was gaping to accommodate his length. Both fascinating and had you dripping at the possible imagery. Gaping beneath your layers, folds spread over his invisible length.
The coil in your belly is heating up he fucks into you. Wetness dampening your panties as he continues to tug at them, forcing the fabric to squish against your oversensitive clit. It has your hips bucking, rolling onto your toes. You don’t even know if it’s to get away or to get more friction.
Jolting against the table as his thrusts become erratic, hands gripping you firmly to hold you in place. Choked moans coming deep from your chest as your orgasm is melting into your pelvis, ready to grab you by the throat.
Then you’re shaking, eyes clamping shut as your pussy flutters around his length, stuttering his last few thrusts before he sputters to a stop.
You're boneless against the table, mind all muddled as the hands disappear. A weight settling over the arch of your spine, a pair of arms bracketing over your own. Heaving chest against your back, goosebumps imprinting his touch into your skin.
“You’re a fucked up little thing, aren’t you?” His voice sounds almost breathless(?) You note that in some corner of your head.
“Oh the others will like you for sure. Be careful, little lamb.”
The presence disappears, leaving you with that foreboding warning and something dripping out of you.
Hosting family over the holidays leads to tension that must be resolved one way or another.
“This is why I told you to get them a hotel.”
“Yes, let’s tell my sister that she has to wrangle her children into a hotel room even though we have an empty guest room. Makes perfect sense. She’ll definitely accept that.”
“Lie! The window doesn’t seal properly, we’re waiting for a new mattress, renovations. Literally anything Kyle. It’s that easy.”
Kyle was white-knuckling the steering wheel, left hand jerking the gear shift as he backed into the driveway. Trunk full of more groceries than you guys would’ve eaten in a month but between Christmas dinner and snacks to just keep your sister-in-laws lovely spawn satiated, you might just need to make another.
The tension in the silent car said enough. It had been a week of passive aggressive comments, stress, and so much work why did you guys ever agree to host this year. This was nothing like hosting Kyles buddies.
He could hear you grumble as you unbuckle your seatbelt. “We need to get that turkey in the sink if we want any chance of a decent dinner.”
Kyle’s fingers caught your jaw before you could try at the door, dimpling into the fat of your cheeks as his mouth slotted over yours, smothering your squeak.
Jesus christ how long has it been since he got his hands on you proper? All this tension, the bickering and sharp glares. It was all just from how pent up he was. No time to get his hands on you when his nephews were in the room over.
He can feel you melt, meeting his urgency as you twist back around, letting him pull you closer. Tongue prodding at your lips in a way that he knows will ruin your makeup but *he needs to taste you*, teeth clicking as the kisses turn open mouthed and desperate to satiate the starvation simmering under his skin.
Absolutely enraptured in the cloying smell of your shampoo. Dizzying when you got a knee on the centre console to just get all the more close.
He's tugging you over it into his lap, hands pawing at your sweater to just get under the too many layers separating him from your soft waist and the bra that hugs your tits too sweetly to not be pulled off. A low moan coming out of his throat when you raked your nails up his nape.
One hand pressing insistently on your lower back to just please please drag your hips forward, just a little bit. Already chaffing in his jeans.
Both of you are panting by the time you pull away, he can see how your lipgloss is smeared, pupils blown all wide as you lean back to appreciate the absolute mess you’ve made of him so quickly. His hands a pawing at the too many layers covering your soft waist-
Kyle just about jumps out of his skin when the car beeps, your back hitting the horn.
The shocked silence is broken when he sees your face. Looking like a teenager just caught sneaking off in her boyfriends car to have sex.
You’re shoving his face away, clambering back over the console as he unbuckles himself. Yelping when he swats at your ass.
Your shushes and glares just cement the lightness in his shoulders as you struggle to not laugh while putting away groceries.
“Maybe I’ll get them tickets to the aquarium so we can have the house for an afternoon, yeah?”
“Yeah?”
The lilt in your voice, an almost mischievous look glinting in your eyes has him already planning how to usher off his sister.
