#c: snips | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

ceilidho · 1 year ago

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sirius c

prompt: forced throuple au; Ghost decides that you and Johnny are his (part 7; ghoap x reader) [tags: noncon, implied cheating (in the context of Ghost's refusal to be a negotiation king lol), very nsfw] masterlist

No one tells you what to do when you finally notice the larger animal watching you from the thicket.

It's been awhile now, you suspect. So long that it's managed to follow you all the way home.

Now they insist on helping you around the shop while you try to work. Try being the operative word. It’s hard to get much done with Simon scaring off all the customers and Johnny dogging at your heels, practically glued to your hip. You briefly consider stabbing him with the snips but then think the better of it. Simon’s stare follows you too closely for you to think you’d get away with it.

Plus, after this morning—you cut that thought off at the root lest embarrassment make your eyeballs burn right out of your head. Despite the fact that he never brings it up, you can’t shake the thought that Simon knows. His face is just as expressionless with the mask off, which rests like a heavy weight on the kitchen table, imbued with a meaning too potent, too loaded, for you to fully digest or, really, understand in any concrete way.

But the glint in his flinty eyes flirts with amusement. Brushes close to it.

“What?” you snap, eggs dangling precariously from your fork.

His stare hasn’t wavered once since sitting you across from him. He doesn’t smirk nor snicker, but you can feel the laugh like a phantom limb that aches until you try to scratch it. He has a face carved from marble or granite, subject to some horrific fate. A statue pulled down from its pedestal and hauled into the river, now dragged out waterlogged and barnacle-crusted. Something terrible happened here and now something else wears its face.

His knees knock against yours under the table again, forcing one leg to spread to accommodate him. You stare at the elbow resting on your table as he chews off the end of a strip of bacon.

He doesn’t say anything, but you know he must have heard you and Johnny in the washroom earlier in the morning. Simon hadn’t even attempted to feign sleep when you’d come out flustered and turned around, stomach in knots.

You can’t even look at Johnny for help because he stands behind the two of you at the counter, no space for him at your small kitchen table. Your life isn’t built to accommodate two men of their size; it’s hardly able to hold space for just the one.

Nevertheless, they stretch it to fit their needs.

Begrudgingly, you have to admit that Simon does help you out around the flower shop. He fixes the door to the supply closet that always jams, hoses down the sidewalk in front of the store where someone vomited near the entryway the night before, and even gives you a couple hours alone to yourself when he drags Johnny with him to do the bouquet deliveries.

They come back with coffee in takeaway cups and pastries in a waxy bag and you nearly moan when you notice the label on the cup. Coffee from the good coffee shop across town. You actually moan when you sink your teeth into an almond croissant and then blink your eyes open wide when you hear Johnny groan in response.

You steel yourself to keep your knees from knocking together.

It’s been a week since you saw him last. Hard to believe. You’ve been distant, rightfully so, contemplating the state of your relationship and coaxing yourself to the brink of texting him that it’s over, only to give up at the last possible minute. The tides receding again.

You don’t think about how much you missed him.

Since this morning, you’ve been on edge. Half tempted to corral Johnny into your apartment upstairs for some alone time. You don’t think Simon would allow that though, whether out of some sadistic glee in seeing you squirm or out of jealousy. It doesn’t seem unlikely. He acts like Johnny is his to do with what he pleases, and Johnny beams up at him like the sun and lets him.

You hadn’t realized there had been a third person in your relationship. Now it feels like his presence has always been felt. You can’t imagine Johnny without the half-shadow cast over his face.

All day, you wait for Johnny to break. Part of you hopes that it’ll be sooner rather than later. Unless he’s been entertaining someone on the side—and, for reasons unbeknownst to you, you discount that thought the second it comes to you, sure that you’d know if there was another woman—it’s likely that he hasn’t fucked in a week. He acts like it too, hovering close enough that you can feel the heat radiating off his body. Every accidental step back comes with a chance of landing straight into his arms.

When you touch his arm gently to ask him to help you move a heavy flower pot, he looks down at you with irises gone black, ready to fuck on a dime. It’s not the right place or time, and you’re still tremendously pissed at him for letting his superior grope you in front of their whole platoon or whatever, but you’ve also gone a week without his dick, and you’re starting to think that your pride shouldn’t get in the way of good dick.

But then he looks over at the hulking figure haunting the doorway and draws back. The shadow on your relationship again. The tension breaks. Even though he postures and flexes when he helps you move the flower pot, it doesn’t come with an invitation to sneak away to your apartment upstairs. Johnny grits his teeth and holds himself back because Simon tells him to; because, in Simon’s own words, he’s a good lad.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” you ask Simon when Johnny goes to take a leak, but he just stares at you with eyes still darkened by poorly wiped off eye black.

The oxygen is sucked out of the room when it’s just the two of you. He’s imposing from afar, accentuated by the innate knowledge—gleaned just from looking at him, nothing more than that, just the size of him in his line of work—that he’s the most dangerous thing around, but with no one else to hide behind, you can’t help but feel like a trapped animal.

“Means he knows who’s in charge,” he says.

Like that’s supposed to tell you anything.

The air still crackles with tension when Johnny comes back. He glances around almost nervously, pupils dilating.

“The two of ye finally gettin’ on?” he asks.

There’s a moment where you consider ripping the veil down and saying, no, we aren’t, Johnny. You quisling. You can see exactly how uncomfortable I am. It’s more than visible; it’s oozing from my pores. You’ve let a wild animal into my house and now it won’t leave. In fact, it’s pissing on my sheets to mark its territory. You let it in knowingly, and even though you know something’s wrong, you’re letting it get worse.

Simon’s smile is severe and whetted when he cuts off your train of thought. “Reckon we're getting on like a house on fire, eh?”

You can’t muster more than a weak smile and nod in response to that.

Around mid afternoon, a regular client calls in with a large, last minute order. You accept it because it’s nothing you don’t already have in stock, but it means you have to close the shop early to work on her order and then load up the van to drive to her place to drop the flowers off.

“I’ll come with you,” Simon grunts when you flip the sign and tell the two of them about your plans.

You freeze, a shudder rippling down your spine. “That’s not necessary—I can do it myself.”

“Don’t care.”

“I do it all the time when you’re not here!”

“It’s not up for debate,” he says, eyes going hard. Daring you to argue.

You’ve been getting the sense all day that he’s been trying to corner you, trying to get you on your own. You evade his efforts like a prey animal, but all that does is make him work harder for it.

You look to Johnny for any kind of reassurance, someone to back you up and agree that you’re more than capable since you do this all the time, but he just grins from behind the counter where he helps cut lengths of cellophane and ribbon for the bouquets. “Aye, hen, let him help. Ye cannae carry all of that yourself.”

Your brain clicks back on when you’re barrelling towards your client’s place at breakneck speed, far too fast for a residential road. It’s not you driving though. Simon has himself parked in the driver’s seat, one hand on the wheel and the other dangling loosely out the window. His driving makes your stomach churn, nausea brewing. You bone-knuckle the grab handle reflexively.

“Could you slow down?” you hiss out through clenched teeth.

Simon ignores you until you start to scroll through your phone to distract yourself. He transfers the hand on the wheel to jostle your knee with his free hand. “Eyes on the road.”

“I’m not even driving you,” you squawk, heart thudding in your chest when his hand doesn’t lift off your knee.

“Tell me when to turn, doll.” The pet name makes your stomach jump. When he says it, his hand tightens over your knee, thick fingers with scraped up knuckles curling around, the width of his palm wider than your kneecap and you stare down dumbly, rabbit heart careening at the same speed as the van.

You’re so dumbfounded that you nearly miss the street. He takes the turn suddenly when you mention it instead of making the sensible call to go up the next street and then come back down, and you swear and yell when he nearly takes the van onto the right two wheels.

The sweat is still dripping down the nape of your neck when he parks in front of the client’s venue.

Simon ignores any attempt of yours to help unload the van. All you can do is watch helplessly as he carries multiple arrangements into the venue at once, leaving you to handle the contract and payment collection. The situation is spiraling rapidly out of your control.

Your client, a housewife about a decade or so older than you, eyes him as he passes with two flower pots tucked under his arms.

“I didn’t know you changed staff,” she murmurs, eyes following him into the next room and lingering on the backs of his thighs when he bends down to deposit the flower pots, making the material of his pants strain tight around his glutes and hamstrings.

“I didn’t,” you protest, shaking your head. “That’s—he’s my boyfriend’s coworker. Um, his boss, I mean. I think. He’s just helping out for the day.”

“Well, I know how I’d like him to help out,” someone else giggles. One of the venue staff, judging by her uniform. Even your client titters at that.

Simon’s more approachable with the mask off, it seems. Still verging on the preternatural, but at least without the mask he seems more human. All six-foot-five-inches of him, arms and legs packed with a generous helping of muscle and fat; a square jaw must be appealing to any sex-parched person within range. It makes your jaw clench.

“Here’s your receipt,” you grit out before ripping it off the payment terminal and handing it to her. She blinks at your dour mood, unused to a less than professional version of you, but that’s what Simon’s presence does to you. Sours you right up. A lemon squeezed right into the mouth.

He’s posted by the van when you come out still scowling and itching for a row. He frowns at the look on your face. “Fix your attitude. You’ve already upset Johnny enough.”

You halt in your tracks, dumbstruck. “I’ve upset Johnny?”

“Yeah. So fix it before we get back.”

You’ve officially reached your limit. All day, you’ve been waiting to go nuclear, bad mood settling deeper and deeper into you because you’ve never been good at managing your anger. The audacity to blame you for this whole situation nearly makes you lose your head.

Simon looks almost bored when you stomp up to him and stab a finger into his chest. You pointedly do not let yourself focus on how little his chest gives beneath your finger. “All of this was your fault for sexually harassing me in the first place. I don’t even think you were ever sorry for that—this all just feels like some fucked up attempt to break me and Johnny up.”

He stares down at you. “You think I want Johnny for myself?”

Heat flares under your collar, but you push on. “I do. And you know what? You can have him. I don’t need this. Johnny clearly values your approval more than mine anyway or none of this ever would have happened once he caught you groping me in broad daylight. If you want him so bad, nothing I do is going to work, so why even bother? He’s yours. The both of you can fuck off when we get back—I’m sick of having you in my space.”

The tirade leaves you panting by the end of it, and then you look into his eyes.

You wonder if it’s a universal phenomenon to sense the moment when you’ve made a grave miscalculation. It must be. The feeling is overwhelming; for you, it throbs in your very bones.

Simon’s expression never changes, but the light behind his eyes starts to flicker in a different way, and you are suddenly conscious of him not just as a man but as a man paid to kill. A professional at that. At least a dozen bodies under his belt and likely more, and yet you stand chest to chest with him like you’re somehow tougher than that; like all those bodies mean nothing, like his knife hasn’t quenched its bloodthirst ad infinitum, like his arms haven’t felt a neck crack until it’s become a habit, an easy kill, a morning fix.

You’ve never felt more like meat than under his gaze.

“Get your ass in the van,” he commands, and you listen because your mouth has gone dry and you understand now, somewhere deep in your reptile brain, a little creature hissing at you to turn and run, that he doesn’t warn. He just does.

Humiliation festers under your skin when he buckles you in. Your mouth opens on a smart remark until you catch a glimpse of him from the corner of your eye and it’s all anger leaking tar, mafic lava dark and flowing, smooth and lobed and striated with hellfire.

You think at first that he’s just going to drive you home. Your words might have offended him, but the lack of refutation makes you think that at his core, he must agree. Simon is just another man with an unholy allegiance to ego, an ugly incarnation of desire and pride that you might have briefly mistook as a person as complex as yourself until he snuffed that inkling right out with a hand on your ass.

Then, lost in your thoughts, you miss when he pulls over and puts the van in park.

You hear the click of your seatbelt, but your head doesn’t have time to turn before Simon hauls you over the center console and into his lap, a hand already clamping over your mouth to muffle your scream.

“I’ve had enough of the fuckin’ attitude, girl,” Simon snarls into your ear, shoving his hand down the front of your pants without any preamble, the stretchy jogger fabric not putting up any resistance. “I haven’t got the patience for it. We’ll sort you out and knock these stupid notions from your skull.”

You must shriek under his palm because his fingers tighten, digits pressed into your jaw to the point of aching. It’s hard to tell under the white hot fear that washes over you, nearly blinding you.

If it bothers him to find you dry under your panties, he doesn’t say anything. Calloused fingers spread your labia wide and trace over your clit lazily, trying to coax the slick out of you. You squirm in his hold, desperate to somehow wriggle out, but Simon chooses now to give you a glimpse of his strength, holding you tight to his chest. No matter how much you squirm, there’s no way out of his hold. Shouting behind his palm doesn’t help either; Simon just curls his hand tighter over your mouth.

Horror blooms in your chest when your core starts to warm up at his touch. The first traitorous bead of wetness nearly has you apoplectic with rage. His fingers saw up and down over your slit until he thinks you’re wet enough to handle two fingers shoved knuckle deep.

“Enough of that,” Simon grunts when you yelp and knee the underside of the steering wheel in your haste to get away. “It’s just two. You’ve been fucked before; you can take it.”

Your knee aches from slamming into the steering wheel, but it’s nothing compared to the ache of his fingers stretching you open, the skin around his knuckles delicate and febrile. For all his flaws, Johnny loves getting his mouth on your pussy before trying to cram his cock in, addicted to the taste of you on his tongue when he’s got you folded in half and taking his dick like a champ. Simon seems like he wouldn’t mind railing you in the back of the van without any prep whatsoever.

“Can’t wait to break you on my cock,” he growls, his breath hot over your neck, and lust stinking up the van so bad that the air is nearly rancid with it. Sulfuric. “You think you’ve had it rough with Johnny? You don’t have a fuckin’ clue what you’re in for with me.”

His hunger is a noxious, billowing cloud. Miasma like. It threatens to smother you. His shaft is hard under your ass, evident when he thrusts his hips up. Your ensuing yip makes him grunt, gratified, like his pleasure comes part from your shock.

“I’m not explaining this shit anymore. This is the way it’s gonna be from now on—no discussion, no arguing, no nothing. It’s not up for negotiation.”

Simon’s fingers piston into you without remorse, brutal hunger foisted off on your body. You again try desperately to push away from him, almost levitating out of his arms until he forces you back down and bites down hard over your clothed shoulder. The horn stays silent when you try to honk it, mocking you somehow. You wonder if anyone would hear your muffled cries from beneath Simon’s hand if they happened to pass by, or if they’d chance a glance into the van and see the devil himself playing with your pussy in his lap and keep on walking.

Your body plays you for a fool though, sweltering under his touch. When he growls in your ear, your pussy clenches up nice and tight, and slick drips down your inner thighs.

A third finger nearly makes you choke on your gasp. You go quiet after that save for the occasional whimper, all of your energy concentrated on accommodating his fingers, each as wide as almost two of yours. A fourth almost doesn’t feel fathomable, but then he sinks it into you and every thought leaks out of your head.

“Christ, you’re a dream when you shut your mouth, aren’t you, doll?” Simon breathes, nosing the corner of your jaw. “Johnny picked a nice little cunt for himself.”

He doesn’t pick up on the irony somehow. Even shaking in his lap, your brows furrow at his words, a barb on the tip of your tongue until a glob of slick leaks from you and wrenches you back out of your head.

He clicks his tongue against his teeth all condescendingly when your breathing goes hitched and panicked, so close to coming that you feel a hairsbreadth from it. When you jump at the sound of his tongue snapping in your ear, he chuckles, the broad chest at your back shaking with his laughter.

“There we go,” Simon murmurs, rubbing a soothing hand over your belly. “Tired, eh? Just need to come and have a nap. I know Johnny left you hanging this morning. Poor girl.”

You hadn’t even noticed that he’d dropped his hand from your mouth to your stomach, but there’s nothing to do about it now. All you can do is lean back against him and stare at the fine, blond hair on his knuckles as he drags it over your belly button in slow, languid strokes.

“Oh god—” you groan when he thumbs your pearled clit and sinks his fingers in as deep as they’ll go, your hole stretched too tight.

Sweat beads on your hairline. It feels like tears might be leaking down your cheeks, but it’s hard to say. The only thing you can do is focus on not coming apart at the seams.

The air in the van is moistened by your breath, the windows almost completely fogged up. Your lower back aches from arching into his hand. When it comes out in a sob, he tells you he’ll have Johnny massage it when the two of you get home.

“It’s always gonna hurt a little with me,” Simon says, and you almost mistake it for apologetic until he pulls you into an open-mouthed kiss that makes you twist your neck and ignores the way you whimper into his mouth.

You nearly black out when he finally makes you come, your head tipping back and resting on his shoulder. You tense in his grasp and open your mouth on a soundless moan when your walls spasm around his fingers. Nothing you can do but let it happen. Like splintering down the middle. It hits you so hard that your belly cramps.

Shame hits you so much harder. A half second after, like the sky splitting open and a voice thundering down, you know what you did.

Your leg gives a feeble twitch when he pulls his fingers out, his palm soaked with your juices. You’re a limp mess of sour sweat and come in his lap, reeking of sex musk and a warm, spicy scent.

You squeal and jolt back to awareness when he pushes a finger back in, sensitive to the point of pain. “Simon, I can’t—”

“Hold still; m’not done yet,” he cuts you off, irritation layered in his voice again.

You don’t have to endure it for as long this time at least; he paws at your overworked sex and pants in your ear like a bear. Luxuriating in the soft, wet folds of your pussy. His touch isn’t clumsy, but it feels like he’s making up for lost time. It almost makes you wonder how long he’s wanting to get between your legs, but that thought evaporates when he reaches further down to press his fingers against the rim of your other hole, chuckling into your hair when you clench up.

Then, after a few minutes, he pulls his hand out of your joggers and pats your belly with his wet fingers, leaving dewy strands of your juices on your skin before helping you back into the passenger seat. You don’t even have it in you to protest when he buckles you in again. You even accept it when he leans over to plant another wet kiss on your mouth, one with too much tongue and too much teeth, come drunk and aching for any kind of affection.

“Sweet as pie, eh?” Simon rasps, eyes half-lidded and heady. Almost lovesick. “Couldn’t have asked for better.”

You stare at the side of his head as he drives the two of you back to the shop, eyes glued to his cauliflower ear. Rough son of a bitch. Brute strength hewn into his bones, covetous need in his veins.

And this is what your boyfriend thought was appropriate to bring home.

He stops one more time to feed his cock down your throat before you make it home. Your tongue curls around the mushroomed head of dick when he drags your head down, the wiry hair at his crotch tickling your nose. The scent of him here is pungent, musky. Old lichenous rocks and rust like blood on your tongue. You’re so pliable that you hardly even gag when it touches the back of your throat.

His come is still hot and tacky on your tongue when he pulls you into his lap to let you cry it out, wiping up your tears with a rough thumb. It’s a while before you manage to settle down again.

Johnny’s still beaming behind the counter when you come in, Simon at your rear to keep you from running, his hand planted firmly at the small of your back. You can barely look your boyfriend in the eye. You’re afraid he’ll see it plain as day on your face, hair mused and lips swollen from sucking his lieutenant off in the van on the drive home.

“The two of ye have a good time all by yourselves?” he asks, either deliberately ignoring the obvious or naively trusting. You don’t know which would be worse.

You can hear the dry grin in Simon’s voice. “We had a nice chat, didn’t we, doll?”

All you can muster is a weak smile and croak, “Yep. We did.”

You hold off a flinch when Simon’s hand slips down and grabs a handful of your ass.

#ceil writing #cod mw2 #cod x reader #ghost/soap/reader #ghoap x reader #ghost/reader #ghost x reader

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westanleovaldito · 2 months ago

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Not So Bad

Summary: Reader cutting Spencers hair.

Fluff, scissors, mentions of mental illness and sensory issues.

Written with early seasons/autistic Reid in mind. Hardly proofread

Spencer was... Introverted, to say the very least.

He reluctantly let you into his life. He never really liked trusting people, but you felt different, calming, almost. Like he didnt need to break down his walls, because you scaled them with such quiet ease.

He took you on a few dates. Soon, you lost count of how many nights you spent on the floor, reading and waiting for the library to close, secretly hoping you'd be forgotten and be trapped in there for the night.

How many afternoons you'd spent in the corner of a coffee shop, buzzing with caffeine and letting him ramble every fact he knew, letting words sink into you so you could bounce back with equal enthusiasm.

All you knew, it was enough for him to know he wanted to bring you into his space. He took you back to his apartment.

It was a massive step for you two, for him to trust you in his space, to figuratively and literally let you into his mind and heart.

You didn't really know what to do. You took your shoes off at the door, stood awkwardly as he gave you the tour, restrained yourself from touching every trinket.

Eventually, he went off to the bathroom and you stood with your head cocked to the side, reading the book titles on his shelf.

"Ugh, I need to cut my hair again." He groaned. As you turned, you saw him messing with his hair in the mirror nearby.

"I think it looks nice." You say in response, humming as you shift over to meet his gaze through the mirror. "Your waves are really cute- I like them"

He pursed his lips and ran a hand through his hair before turning to look at you. "I never really learned to take care of them..."

Tilting your head, you reached out to touch him. Quickly pausing, you retract your hand. "Sorry- c-can I..?" Waiting for his nod before you ruffle his hair. "You cut your own hair?"

Spencer never liked barbers.

Never.

Too many sensations, touches, the talking? And the fact that a stranger was holding scissors near his hair? A stranger that never ever followed his instructions or systems- and almost always cutting it wrong?

Ok, that sounds horrible and rude... He just... couldn't stand it.

So, he started cutting his own hair at home. For a moment, it was nice. He liked the 'tssssip!' Sound, the feeling of cleaning the hair off the floor and sink, how sterile he felt- no feeling of the social setting seeping into his skin.

Then it started to become a chore. The ache his arms got from trying to reach the back, the fact that he never got it just right- ok. The back was the worst of his problems. And he never really trusted his mom with the scissors.

He also hated how people always touched him when they found out he did his own hair, inspecting him, likely judging him. You weren't like that- you were talking to him- shit

"I- uh- yeah" he nodded, bitting his lip. "I know it looks bad- I just-"

"I cut my own hair too" you interrupt softly, moving to look at the back of his head. "My mom hated it, but couldn't stop me."

"My mom never noticed..."

A sad hum from you, who was now analyzing him. He had seen that look before, from an artist who was looking at a blank canvas. "When did you start?"

After my mom's schizophrenia got unbearable?

"I don't remember..."

It wasn't a full lie. He didn't remember what age he started, but he didn't tell the whole truth either.

"Hm... want me to try?"

Spencer hesitated. Visibly thinking. Did he really trust you enough? Did he even need a haircut that badly?

The thoughts persisted until he was staring out the bathroom window, with you seated contently on his counter.

You had yet to start snipping. He could still back out- did he want to back out?

"Just- just a trim?"

Why did his mouth betray him?

"Just a trim?" You ask skeptically. "Not even a scalp massage? A kiss for luck?"

He turned around with a begrudging smile. "If you need luck, I'm not sure I trust you with my hair!"

"I'm kidding! I jest, my love!" You giggle, turning him back around. Pressing a kiss to the back of his head, you carefully take a strand, and cut it.

After he got out of thinking about the germs and the best, most logical way to do it... He... liked it. It was pleasant! You didnt talk to much, your touch was delicate, you had scrubbed your hands before you started, you even hummed along to some song he couldn't place.

When you turned him around to cut his bangs, you carefully brushed his hair behind his ear and cut it at the right length that he could keep it out of his face!

Every small snip was with him in mind. And when you were done? How you shook out his hair and then the towel, setting the scissors in a cup of alcohol.

Pulling back and cupping his face with such delicate reverence that he almost never felt. "I think I did a pretty good job..." you murmur, scanning every inch of his face.

It was such a soft, intimate moment between you two. He let you in, and you held him like a glass flower.

"I- I dont think it's bad..."

You look back to his eyes with a cocked brow.

"I haven't even seen it... you're in the way of the mirror" he chuckled reluctantly.

"Sorry~" you mutter in a mock apologetic tone before pressing a kiss to his lips.

He almost forgot about how much he wanted to see his hair, before you parted, and slid off the counter.

Maybe he didnt have to cut his own hair anymore.

#spencer reid fluff #spencer reid #spencer reid x reader #shy spencer reid #spencer reid fanfic

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alphynix · 4 months ago

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Dorypterus hoffmanni was a stem-actinopterygian fish that lived during the late Permian, around 259-254 million years ago, in shallow warm lagoons covering what is now northwestern Europe.

About 13cm long (~5"), it had a tall narrow disc-shaped body convergently similar to modern reef fish, and it was mostly scaleless with only a few scales on its underside, below its pectoral fins, and along the top of its tail. It also appears to have been toothless, and probably used its large scissor-like jaws to snip off mouthfuls of soft food such as algae.

But its most distinctive feature was its highly elongated pennant-like dorsal fin, which may be an example of sexual dimorphism – fossils of short-finned individuals have also been found, and although they were originally named as a separate species (Dorypterus althausi) they probably actually represent female D. hoffmani.

———

NixIllustration.com | Tumblr | Patreon

References:

Gill, E. Leonard. "XXXI.—The Permian Fish Dorypterus." Earth and Environmental Science Transactions of The Royal Society of Edinburgh 53.3 (1925): 643-661. https://doi.org/10.1017/S0080456800027526

Nelson, Joseph S., Terry C. Grande, and Mark VH Wilson. Fishes of the World. John Wiley & Sons, 2016. https://www.researchgate.net/publication/301290410_Fishes_of_the_World_Fifth_Edition

Westoll, T. Stanley. "The Permian fishes Dorypterus and Lekanichthys." Proceedings of the Zoological Society of London B111 (1941): 39-58. https://doi.org/10.1111/j.1469-7998.1941.tb00042.x

Wikipedia contributors. “Dorypterus” Wikipedia, 23 Dec. 2024, https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Dorypterus

#science illustration #paleontology #paleoart #palaeoblr #dorypterus #dorypteridae #dorypteriformes #actinopterygii #fish #art

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vorfreudevortex · 3 months ago

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The Seamster

more levi x blind!fem!reader bc i'm pathetic cw: cussing, jealousy, i think that's it. matteo is just a random dude i made up, not canon. pretty fluffy/lowkey. you can read more of these two losers here and here, along with my general masterlist

“Please have a seat while you wait, Captain,” Mrs. Martin, the familiar old seamstress said. “Matteo will take care of her.”

“Matteo?” Levi, who was leading you to the measuring platform, stopped in his tracks. He side eyed the young man who stood to the side.

“Yes,” The seamstress smiled. “Our new apprentice.”

“Aren’t you going to do it?”

“It’s alright, Levi,” You chirped. “We’re going to sew Mrs. Martin to death if she doesn’t get a break.”

He didn’t respond as the old lady walked away, but stabilized you by your arm and waist with a quiet, “Careful, it’s about 6 inches up,” as you took the step. Matteo— who is unfortunately the epitome of tall, dark, and handsome— approached the platform with a polite introduction while Levi backed off to the side.

“I know Mrs. Martin usually starts from the bottom up,” He explained. “But I’ll measure your arms first if that’s alright with you.”

“Sure,” You responded, and raised your arms slightly for him. Matteo stretched the measuring tape from your wrist to shoulder, taking a mental note of the number.

“We’re just looking for a few new dresses today?”

“Yes,” You nodded, the pretty smile on your face spreading wide. Levi thought you looked beautiful as the sun hit your eyes, up on a pedestal just like you always should be. “Maybe a blouse and skirt, as well.”

“Wonderful,” He measured your shoulders next. “After this, I’ll help you choose some nice colors.”

The shop smelled like fresh cotton and mothballs, with bundles of fabric stacked from floor to ceiling that Levi was careful to steer you around. A few mannequins were stood around the sides, and you could hear Mrs. Martin snipping cloth in the other room.

“I’ll get your neck now,” said Matteo, his voice soft and kind. A bit too soft and kind for Levi’s liking. “…Is it alright if I move your hair?”

You nodded, and Levi watched closely as the seamster’s fingers fluttered over your skin, gently swiping your hair away, then carefully wrapping the tape around your neck. Levi saw goosebumps rise on your nape from Matteo’s soft breath, and cringed internally. The seamster stepped away for a moment to jot down the numbers before returning.

“We’ll measure your breasts, waist, and hips now,” Matteo said. Levi felt his eye twitch.

“C-Can you warn me when you do it?” You smiled sheepishly. Levi brewed. If Mrs. Martin were measuring you, she’d already know to tell you before each time she’d touch, always staying aware of your lack of sight.

“Of course!” He reassured. “Now raise your arms straight out for me… Yes, just like that.”

“Sorry,” You mumbled when you accidentally brushed his arm when you lifted them.

“Don’t apologize. Alright, I’m going to reach around you now… I’m coming under your arms… My hands will meet the center of your chest now.”

To any other person except for Levi, the interaction would be seen as nothing but professional. He wanted to say something snippy, but gathered all the will in his body to keep his mouth shut for you, knowing you’d be upset and embarrassed if he caused a scene. He couldn’t stop glaring at the stupid seamster. Selfishly, he almost wanted Matteo to be to firm and rude to you. That would piss him off too, but it would still be better than whatever the hell was unfolding in front of him.

Matteo did the same with your waist and hips, softly talking you through his actions as his nimble fingers lingered far too long for Levi’s preferences. A slight ache spread through Levi’s face, and he realized he had been harshly clenching his jaw and grinding his teeth with concealed anger.

It was when Matteo knelt down before you to measure your legs when Levi felt that he was going to combust. The interaction reminded Levi that he should be the only one on his knees before you, helping you lace and unlace your boots for you like he did almost every single day.

Matteo politely explained his movements as he held one end of the tape at your ankle with a grounded hand wrapped around it, while his other arm reached up to hold the other end at where your thigh met your groin. The tips of your ears became a light pink, your shyness peaking through as you silently realized how intimate the innocent moment could be taken. Your upper body wobbled a bit and Levi snapped.

He was at your side in a milliseconds. One rough hand gripped the side of your waist while his other wrapped around your palm, your elbow against Levi’s chest as he stabilized your balance once again. He was about to tear into Matteo with words he hadn’t even concocted yet, but the warmth of your touch made him think twice.

“Thank you, Levi,” You giggled sweetly, recognizing the familiar holds of his calloused hands right away.

Instead of responding, Levi bore down at Matteo with fiery eyes, knowing you’d never notice the pure hatred he was communicating to the seamster with only a look. He felt nothing but satisfaction as Matteo looked up at him with fearful eyes and a nervous face.

“Ahem, yes, very good, all done,” The seamster coughed awkwardly, rising back to his feet and stepping away to jot down the rest of the measurements as Levi helped you step down from platform, never taking his judging eyes off the bastard.

After hastily choosing fabrics and colors he knew you’d like, Levi whisked you out the shop door.

“We’ll see you next week for a fitting!” Matteo called.

“Thank you!” You waved, still oblivious to everything. Levi was already planning on demanding Mrs. Martin to do your fitting, as well as how badly he’d beat the shithead seamster into the ground if he ever put a finger on you again.

You may not be truly his… much to Levi’s dismay… but that didn’t mean he’d ever allow another man to fool around like that on the woman he quietly loved the most.

“I’m excited to see Matteo next week,” You told Levi, innocently smiling as the two of you left the shop. Levi almost felt guilty putting a damper on your excitement, knowing it’s been a while since he had bought you anything new to put in your closet. “I hope my dresses turn out well.”

But Levi didn’t hesitate to admit his thoughts, always truthful to you, even to a fault.

“…We are never going back there again.”

#attack on titan #levi ackerman #blind reader #levi x reader #aot levi #levi aot #levi attack on titan #captain levi #levi ackerman x reader #snk levi #aot #aot fanfiction #aot x reader #shingeki no kyojin #attack on titan x reader #levi my beloved #levi ackerman x you #vorfreudevortex

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lokisgoodgirl · 1 year ago

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Distractions [Loki x Reader]

A Link to my Masterlist is HERE Summary: You suck Loki's fingers during movie night with entirely predictable results. Warnings: 18+ Minors DNI. Avenger!Loki x Female Reader. Finger-sucking. Smut. Chino-besmirchment. Language. 'SEVEN' movie references. (w/c 1.6k)

You flinch as Brad Pitt recoils from the body on the bed in disgust. Scott hollers in the corner, sending popcorn and assorted snacks nestled between he and Sam flying. “Wooooah-” Scott cries. Sam's face is aghast as he tries and fails to scramble the chocolates. “Dude, what...these are new chinos. Pale stone, man. Pale...stone.” Scott’s hands crest at his nose. “Did you see that guy on the bed? Ho-boy, that’s gross. So gross. Rewind it.”

“Fan-tastic,” Sam says dryly, yanking the depleted bowl to his side. He clutches it in one hand, searching for stray chocolate buttons concealed beneath his thighs with the other. Tony snaps the leg panel of his recliner down, bracing at the sides. “Zip it or you’re barred. I have managerial rights.” “C’mon man, you saw what he did to my snacks - to my chinos.” Tony raises a silencing finger to Sam, moving it slowly to Scott. They both shrink into the sofa. "You know you're out of line when the lovebirds are better behaved that you are - and one of them is Loki." Loki’s mouth moves to your ear in the midst of the bickering, his breath making your scalp tingle. “It still amuses me that these picture reels affect you so. So easily unnerved.” “I’m not affected,” you mumble against his t-shirt. Loki’s low chuckle jostles your head. You prop your chin on his chest, staring up at the taut underside of his jaw. His eyes are bright and reflecting the screen stretched across the wall of the common room. “Yes you are,” he whispers in a frequency it feels like only you can hear. “It would be unreasonable for you to be as stoic as a god, darling. Very difficult to affect us to the same extent, you see.” “Is that right?” “Mmm,” Loki hums as he focuses on Morgan Freeman doing something clever. “My concentration is impeccable. Always has been.” You snort against his t-shirt. Minutes pass and peace is restored to the Stark cinema. You reach for Loki’s hand, intertwining the fingers. He gives it a squeeze, kissing the top of your head with his eyes trained on the screen. “Quiet,” Tony snips. A puff of air escapes against your hair. Loki squeezes your hand again and you press a kiss into his stomach, sucking the cotton between your teeth. The hard heat of his muscle clenches as your teeth graze the curve of a pectoral, blowing a blast of heat through the fabric. A strained exhale escapes Loki’s nostrils. “Careful, darling,” he murmurs. Silently, you shift the back of his hand to your lips. It's huge. Your dainty fingers get lost in the flickering shadows from the screen beneath the perfect pale of his long digits. His abdomen tightens against your cheek; hips shifting beneath you. After pausing a few moments...just to make him sweat, you press your lips against his skin. The unlikely pair on-screen move and talk, but you’re not really listening. It’s Loki’s gentle breaths you’re listening to, the ones drawn with such utmost precision that they’re anything but natural. Your lips move along the back of his hand, kissing the way you used to practice when you were a kid. “Mmgh,” he groans quietly, widening his thighs. Without looking you can tell Tony is glaring. “Apologies,” Loki says. “Cramp.”

Your tongue covertly traces the line of Loki’s finger from his second knuckle to the tip, catching it between your lips. A violent shudder wrenches his thighs and his effort to remain casual is astonishingly evident in the tighten of every muscle touching your body. His finger balances on the flat of your tongue and Loki’s holds his breath. After a pause, you slide it to the back of your tongue, fastening your lips to the base of his finger. “Norns,” he breaths, clearing his throat. It times perfectly with a jump-scare on screen. His free hand is curled to the arm-rest, perfectly manicured nails turning white as he digs them into the upholstery. You began to suck.

A growl rumbles his chest and the desperation to seem un-phased makes heat pool in your belly. You shift your hips, wetness sliding in your underwear. Loki’s cock is hardening furiously against his thigh, the drape of your hand, swelling against the tight jeans he insists on wearing. Sucking firmly, you drag your mouth down his finger, lingering on the tip and swirling your tongue. When you do that to his cock, just right, he cums down your throat with a whimpering stutter of your name. “I can’t do this anymore,” Loki mutters. Suddenly the world is upended and you’re tossed against the cushions on the opposite side of the sofa. Loki’s on his feet, one hand on his hips and the other pointed at the screen. It glistens with your saliva. Tony slams the feet of his recliner down. “Laufeyson for Christssakes will you pee before the movie? How many times.” “This man is an insufferable buffoon,” Loki says as he gestures at Morgan Freeman. “It’s clear the villain they seek is among them: the man with the vaguely attractive face who’s eating constantly.” Scott covers his ears while Sam leans forward. “Yo, man...spoilers,” he warns, raising an eyebrow. Loki lowers his head, shaking it with a smirk. Dark curls fall around his face and the pulse in his neck races in the half-light. “Fools. Come, darling. We shan’t waste your depleting lifespan on this nonsense.” Loki grabs your hand and yanks you from the sofa, bustling towards the door. “Keep moving,” he orders while a frantic hand runs over your ass and squeezes hard. The door barely clicks shut before Loki descends like a storm; hands and lips and dark sighs smothering you against the wall. “You dare to tease me thus?” He pants between the words, wet lips parted and eyes heavy. “I didn’t think you’d be affected, you say as Loki’s eyes glint. “I thought your concentration was impeccable.” He steps between your legs and the flat of his thigh pressed up against your clit. You gasp. “Even a god can be undone by simulated oral pleasure on his extremities, darling." You bat your lashes, biting your lip. “I won’t tell Hydra, I promise.” Loki growls again as he trails his knuckles over your breasts; his black hair and t-shirt and jeans melting into the darkness of the unlit corridor. The hand snakes down your thigh, working under the loose hem of your skirt. “Loki,” you say, eyes darting to the cinema-room door at the other side of the corridor. “Shhh…” Loki buries himself in your neck, sucking against your pulse. There’s a girlish scream from inside the room as another body is discovered. Your fingers fumble with Loki’s jean buttons, a desperate sigh of relief clouding the air as his cock springs free. “You’re impossible,” he says as he pulls the gusset of your panties to the side. “You’re impossible.” “Well, yes,” he says with a conspiratorial smile before hoisting your legs around his waist and sinking you greedily onto his length. The tug of his cock squeezing inside you hits with new fire as his hand covers your mouth. The finger you sucked is still wet and you pant against his palm. His eyes are bottomless in the gloom; the slight tremble of his brows and the part of his lips as he fucks you against the wall making you melt against him. Every slow roll of his hips erupts a quiet moan between his fingers. His breathy pants time with your own as he gets off on your pleasure like he always does. Your fingers claw at the V of his t-shirt, bunching it in a fist with a mewl of his name. “Teasing a god rarely ends without mischief, love,” he murmurs in the dark. Loki’s skin is flawless in the weak light leaking beneath the door to the cinema room. “You’d do well to remember that as we continue this…” He thrusts with calculate precision. “Venture.” You moan against his hand, eyes screwing shut as the coil tightens deep inside you. He loosens the pressure of his palm, a finger nudging at your lips. “Go on,” he whispers through heavy exhales. “Suck it as I fuck you. Show me how filthy you are for me.”

You let it slide against your tongue, sucking the digit over the flat with every rise of his hips. Legs tightening around him, Loki bites his lip as he looks down at your head falling back against the wall with unbridled approval. “You like it,” he moans with a whiff of condescension. “Perhaps I can summon a duplicate of myself for you to pleasure while I take you another way; would you like that?” The thought has blood thumping in your ears and the twisting pressure tightening in your core reaches critical levels. You whine, sucking Loki’s finger frantically as his eyes glaze with lust and his teeth clench. “F-fuck,” he chokes, stiffening against you. His forehead presses to yours, a guttural sigh shaking from his chest. Breath mists against your lips and you can feel the swell of his hot cum leak from your slit as he shuffles, milking the last of his pleasure – and yours. Your nails dig into the meat of his shoulders as you cum with a strangled whimper, dragging against the cotton. Loki’s thrusts slow, his kisses working into the angle of your jaw and the thud of your pulse. “You were wrong,” you sigh as he lowers your feet to the floor. “Excuse me?” “About the killer. It’s not Brad Pitt.” Loki’s brow scrunches as trembling fingers pull at his zip. “How can that be?” You shrug mysteriously, buttoning his jeans with a pat of his softening bulge. “Shall we go back in?”

Loki’s eyes narrow and he curls a damp strand of hair behind your ear. “Alright. But no distractions.” “I promise,” you lie, and a wicked smile plays on Loki’s lips.

Tags in comments because Tumblr continues to be annoying❤️

#loki x reader #loki smut #loki x reader smut #loki laufeyson #loki fanfiction #loki x female reader #loki x female reader smut #loki x you #loki x y/n #loki x yn #loki fanfic #loki oneshot #loki gifs #lokismut

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boycrazygirllover · 2 months ago

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psst... we got more adrian chase recently... he does have a new haircut

YOU SHOULD EXPECT NOTHING OF ME!

That being said... enjoy cutting Adrian's hair.

"It's awful. Oh my god."

"What?" His hands rake through the sides, the very recently fucked up sides, like he's a New York greaser. "Nahhh."

His tone, earnest even while he's actively looking in the mirror, almost has you believing him. But then he turns his head and you see the side where your scissors dug too far into his hair, a fucking chunk gone, and reality sets in.

“It’s concave.”

"Yeah, you could spelunk down here. I love it."

"It, you're not taking this seriously." You scoff, chewing the inside of your cheek, trying not to absolutely freak out. Is glue a stupid idea? A clip-on bang? “How do you feel about wigs?”

"Mm," he hums, mussing up the front of his hair, "I prefer lace fronts, but I feel like a hat wig would match my Fennelsona better—”

“Your what?” He'd given it thought?

He checks himself out from the side, catching your eye in the reflection. “Honestly, I could go shorter. Should we go shorter?"

His fingers pry the scissors open, round-tip craft ones that are beginning to rust because he never fully dries them after washing, just closes and lets the water eat the blade.

"Stop it."

You reach for the scissors, more gentle and less defensive than you would’ve been if you weren’t two and a half years into your relationship with him. He turns around, and in one swift movement, grabs his front curl, one of your favorites (because you do have favorites), and snips far too close to the root.

“Wh—! Oh, my god.”

“The feeling of the hair cutting, it’s like chopping celery, but if celery was as thin as hair. See?”

"That doesn't even make sense." You're starting to drown. The urge to exert complete control. The inability to do so.

The unmistakable sound of scissors snapping. Another curl.

It falls to the floor, keeping its "C". It's the very one you wrap around your finger when he's out of the shower. Is it crazy to tape it inside your definitely-non-existent scrapbook of him?

“It's just hair,” he says, with hair so short it defies gravity.

“It's your hair.”

You can’t keep the look of mild disgust off your face. He resembles a barbie doll in the hands of a six year old. You think he'd take that as a compliment if you said so.

“I'm glad you cut it. My hair, I mean.” Like there was anything else that could mean. “You wanna cut more?”

He snips the scissors at you, waving them a touch too loose for your liking.

“I’m so okay.” You're really, really not. And the understanding that you're really really not makes it even worse. Why are you so sensitive? Why is indifference so unattainable?

Adrian turns back around to the mirror, crouches lower to meet you where you are, and with that sick, perverted, kind, achingly thoughtful glint in his eyes, and a soft wet kiss to your temple, he guides your hands to chop off another curl before you can even think.

"No fuckin' biggie."

You pinch the outer leg of your jeans. If he says it's no biggie, then maybe it is. Maybe you have to trust him.

"No biggie."

#adrian chase #adrian chase x reader #ao3 #peacemaker #peacemaker season 2 #was gonna wax poetic at the end but not everything needs an epilogue

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melodymissworld · 3 months ago

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Beckon To Your Call / RAFE C.

Summary: Rafe likes to contribute. He’s a proactive man, and despite your independence, he prefers to keep his hands on you.

Tags: mostly fluff, mentions of drugs and relationship struggles.

You and Rafe were currently getting ready for a dinner date. It was 6 in the evening, and yet despite the planned reservations being at 8, you preferred to get ready ahead of time. You were laser-focused on applying your makeup as you softly tapped your brush onto your cheekbones, refining the last touches. As you leaned back to analyze your facial look, your ears picked up at the subtle sounds of the bathroom shower being turned off.

After a few moments of quiet shuffling, Rafe unlocks the door and walks out with a towel wrapped around his hips.

Your eyes fluttered upwards to glance in the mirror and you call out, “baby,” you say. “Can you come here real quick?”

“Could you hold on for a second? I just came out of the bathroom, damn.” He grumbles as he unraveled his towel and plopped it onto the nightstand.

You crane your neck back and glared at him. “I’m asking you a question,” you snip towards his attitude.

“Do I really need to repeat myself?” He clenches his jaw tight. “I need to clothe myself, baby. I can’t just do two and two at the same time. Just hold on.” He tried his best to drill those words into your pretty, stubborn head. He slipped a pair of boxers on and when you were about to talk back, he moved and stood behind your chair.

Holy mother of God, you nervously thought. His body was still bare and in the reflection of your mirror, your eyes trailed over his muscles and lower hips that were defined by the surrounding candle lights on your vanity. From the three progressive years you’ve been together, seeing his body was a never tiring sight to witness. Accumulated dryness began to spread throughout your throat and suddenly, your words became futile.

A sly yet amused smile spreads onto his face, and he bends down to kiss your head. “You like what you see?” He chuckles.

Embarrassed, you rolled your eyes and scoffed. “Shut up…” you uselessly replied. It was always a delight to be around him, naked or not.

His smile widens and it made his eye creases grow. “C’mere, sugar, you know I’m just playin’.” He lowly hummed. He wrapped his arms over your shoulders and bends down to bury his face into your neck; your nose picked up on the warm, familiar cologne smell protruding from his bodily heir. He peppered a few kisses onto your skin, and his hands tightened around your physique. His friends notably called him pussy for having a soft spot for you, but he wouldn’t change his relationship with you for anything else. In his eyes, you were an angel that pulled him up from disparity.

He didn’t really understand what love was like until he met you. Sure, the sex and drugs had addled his brain for a short while, but the aftermath withheld an empty sorrow for him that haunted his dreams. He wasn’t the most rational man. He could ramble on the many times he was done dirtied - either for the beneficial status, wealth, or name - and for that, he thought people were useless pigs for the longest time. Admittedly, drugs were the realest shit he’s ever done because he didn’t have to reason with anybody. He didn’t have to think. He didn’t have to worry about the what if’s, should I have, what would’ve been; all those questions just… poof. Gone and tucked away from his mind.

Looking back, guilt still brews in his heart when he thinks of you. His drug addiction was still highly prevalent in the beginning of their shared relationship, and he was ashamed to admit that he didn’t treat you right. His dad weighed numerous of responsibilities onto his shoulders and he translated his stress onto your body, in which he deeply regrets.

After what felt like was so long, he pulls back from your grasp. “Alright,” he raised his eyebrows. “What’d you need?” He curiously asks. If you were begging for him then he’ll respond. His hands moved from your upper chest to rub on your shoulders.

You hesitated at first, but then you gave him a soft smile. “To braid my hair, please.” Your command was in already motion as from instinct, his fingers were threading through your hair. He bends down and presses another kiss to your forehead, fluttering his eyes shut in order to appreciate the delicate serenity you provided for his mind.

“Since you asked so nicely…” He quietly mutters. In every world, his devotion towards you would forever remain true, even if it meant burying a body with his own bare hands.

A/N: hellooo!! The ending might’ve left a darker tone than intended, but who is Rafe without his complexities? I realized that I might’ve made Rafe too docile as I don’t articulate OBX characterization well, but it was definitely fun to write :)) I indefinitely appreciate you for reading this!! Much love, xoxo💋

#outerbanks rafe #rafe cameron #rafe obx #rafe outer banks #rafe fanfiction #rafe x reader #rafe x you #rafe fic #obx fanfiction #obx fic #obx #obx x reader #fanfic #fandom #it went a little dark at the end lol #for funsies #mm♡

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fanfic-troll · 2 years ago

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↳ a pretty mouth ⚤ ghostface x female!reader 【 18+ ONLY — Minors DNI 】 warnings ⇢ drinking, sexting, knife play, fingering, oral (m receiving), swearing, orgasm denial, pinning, mentions of blood/killing, degrading, ✉ taking requests first part ▻ please respond…i showed you my cock

It had been days since any kind of attack or sign of ghostface. You almost believed he had disappeared, but it was still in the back of your mind. You never responded to his messages that he sent, and he never came to see you. Not that you really wanted him too.

He was psycho. But there was something about his voice and not knowing who was behind that mask that just made your stomach flip the right way round.

You had multiple missed phone calls from a private or blocked number. You had the upper hand for once.

➤ you can’t ignore me ➤ i’m not going to stop ➤ you can try to shut me out, but i’ll find a way to get back in ➤ and when I do, i’m going to bury myself in that sweet pussy

His texts turned you on the more he sent them. All laced with dirty things you tried not to enjoy.

Clearly you needed to give him something to make him chase you harder. Your parents would start to get suspicious of the large water bills coming through, and the last thing you wanted to give up was your shower head time every night. You felt possessed almost, turning yourself on as you dreamt of him climbing through your window of the night, holding a knife to your throat as he fucked you in ways you haven’t experienced before.

Your legs began to rub to get friction, you needed to stop putting these thoughts in your head. He was a serial killer. The last thing you needed was to be fucking the town’s killer who had threatened your life countless times as well.

When you finished school you went over to your friend’s house to get ready for a party that was happening over the weekend. All day you had multiple messages from him. Nothing new, that was until.

🟪 Gfce23 sent you a snap

The purple box told you everything you needed to know. It was video, with audio. You excused yourself from her room, heading into the bathroom. Opening the video it was once again his cock in his gloved hand, his body more in view this time for you to get a better look. Eyeing over his pale skin.

“Ughnf—this is all for you.” Your clit throbbed at the sudden moaning that came from your phone. Walls tightening at his words. ‘This is all for you’. You licked your lips at the sight of the red tipped cock on your screen that thrusted into his leather glove.

“F-f-fuck y/n.” Hearing him say your name mixed with a whimper as he pumped himself, stomach flexing every time he gasped and his movements picked up just a little more. You found yourself with your fingers dancing between your legs again, toying with yourself. The video ended there. No big finish for you. Your flustered state calmed down when you returned to reality and remembered where you were.

“Jesus, fuck!” You hissed, running fingers through your hair as you tried to finish getting ready. You knew it was wrong but you couldn’t help lusting after him. Evening came finally and it was time to get drunk and enjoy your weekend. No school, no studying, no homework. Just alcohol and boys. Walking into the house it was already crazy, everyone dancing and rubbing themselves up against each other.

A few mindless games of spin the bottle, truth or dare, and many more kids games. You found the keg, pouring yourself a drink before feeling a tap on your shoulder. It was the same guy whose been chasing after you since the first grade.

“Hey y/n, long time no see. Feel like we never talk anymore babe.” You cringed at the pet name he gave you. You liked princess better anyway.

“That’s because we aren’t even friends, I don’t talk to people who aren’t my friends.” You snipped back, walking away from the over-confident jock that didn’t want to take no for an answer it seemed. You swung your head back and downed the drink in the red solo cup.

“Look, y/n. Just give me one chance and if you aren’t into it then I’ll leave you alone.” He chased you. But not in a ‘I’m gonna kill you’ way that you for some reason missed. You felt bad that you never did give him the time of day, and the alcohol was already going to your head. So what was one dance? You allowed him to grab your hand and take you to where everyone else was dancing, rolling your hips against him and allowing yourself to just relax.

It was hard too when you were so sexually frustrated, after what felt like forever of dancing you found your friend. Letting her know you were leaving and going home, she was too busy dancing with a group of guys to care. You thought about walking home but chose to Uber instead.

It was just up the road but in your tipsy state, in a short skirt and with a killer on the loose? What could go wrong?

Your parents were once again gone for the night, using the time away to connect and get their marriage back on track. You didn’t turn on the lights, leaving the house dark and making your way upstairs to your room. Opening the door you didn’t know what you were expecting, but seeing it dark and just as you left it was disappointing. You walked over to your vanity, turning on the lamp and eyes looking into the reflective surface.

Your eyes shot open and you sobered up at the sight of a white mask and dark cloak leaning against your clothing dresser. Your heart began to race and you stood up, turning around to face the masked figure who had been on your mind day and night.

“Surprise princess.” His familiar voice had you buckling at the knees. You wanted to drop to them and suck the one thing he had been teasing you with the last few times you spoke.

“Get on the bed. Now.” A sharp piercing feeling was against your leg, looking down you saw the knife he held in his hand against the flesh of your exposed thigh. Hard enough to indent your skin but not to actually pierce you.

You nodded as you walked backwards, sitting on the soft surface and using your elbows to keep you elevated. Eyes looking into the dark black mesh that hid your mystery killer’s eyes.

“Don’t think I didn’t see you dancing tonight princess. Open your legs.” You did as you were told and audibly gulped. You never saw ghost face at the party, you wondered where he could have been for him to be able to watch you in such a crowded house. Your thigh was met with a cold, metal against it. His knife slowly dragging up from your knee all the way to the crease where your pubic region met your leg.

He looked down between your legs, eyeing off the cute short skirt and red panties you had on. The same ones he loved seeing you in when you first tried them on. He let out a low groan before swiftly flicking his wrist so his knife teared at the delicate lace.

$60, down the drain. But you didn’t care. You just wanted to feel him against you, touching, rubbing, sucking. Your breath hitched as he lowered himself, the mattress dipping on each side of you as he positioned himself between your legs and removed the lacy garment blocking his view. He tilted his head to the side, muttering a ‘fuck’ as he saw your creamy hole gaping. How he wanted to fill it. His leather covered fingers reached out and began to rub at your wet folds, moving the creamy arousal over your clit and labia. Teasing your core with soft, slow touched. You gasped as he dipped a finger into your cunt, a thick ring of cream engulfing his finger as he entered you.

He began pumping, curling his finger each time to graze against your sensitive walls. You began letting out soft mewls at the sensations in the pit of your stomach. A sensation you had only been able to get from a shower head and your own touch. Without warning, he added another two fingers, thrusting harder and quicker now and watching your hips bucking to meet his every movement.

“Look at you, this pink pussy is aching to be touched. I’ve barely started and you’re almost unravelling under my fingers. How many can you take before I have you begging for more?” He hissed as he added his thumb to your clit, watching you let out a squealed whimper and jerk your body under his touch. He chuckled darkly at your reactions, watching your fingers grab at the blanket comforter underneath you.

Your orgasm was building quickly and you wanted to let go. But ghostface, had other plans for you. Before you could even mutter a ‘I’m gonna cum’ he removed himself completely. Hearing you almost cry from pain at the loss of pleasure.

“Oh no, you don’t get to cum yet princess.” You let out a whine at his words, squirming under his arms. He grabbed your wrists, pinning you to the bed and grinding his cock against your core. It was hard and only made you beg for more.

“I want to hear you say you would’ve been honoured to have been killed by me. That it makes you wet and turned on that I could kill you right here, right now. And no one could stop me.” Excitement mixed with panic filled your stomach as you thought about how he would react if you didn’t say it.

“It turns me on, that I’m so helpless and weak, that you could kill me right now and no one would help me…or stop you.” You had to admit to yourself sheepishly, that it was erotic.

“Such a pretty princess, with a pretty pussy. And a pretty mouth. I think we should see how good it feels.” He pulled you to the floor with a loud thud, your wrists hurting from being held in place for so long. He undid the black cloak, the velcro ripping and revealing black jeans. His member pushing against the rough material just dying to get out.

You decided to unbutton his jeans and pull his dick out. It was just as you remembered, pink, swollen and veiny. His tip ached to be touched, a drip of precum oozing out his slit and and running towards the edge of his head. Your eyes met his mask, his hand came to your head and pushed his member past your lip and into the warm embrace of your mouth.

He moaned loudly for the first time, and it made you ache all over again. He thrusted his hips, fucking your throat feverishly and throwing his head back in pleasure. Muttering all kinds of vulgar words under his breath at the sensation he had been chasing since the first time he saw you. You gagged and coughed at the sharpness and uncomfortable feeling of him hitting the back of your throat.

Spittle running down the corners of your lips and chin as he relentlessly unleashed his strength onto you.

“Fucking take it princess, don’t forget how many people had to die for me to feel your pretty lips around my cock. Take it all. Fucking cock-slut.” His degrading words only sparked you to work his member harder, bobbing your heads in rhythm with him now and swirling your tongue around your mouth in no rhythm at all. He didn’t chase his orgasm, your pussy was his endgame.

“On the bed and get on your hands and knees.” He growled, annoyed at himself for not reaching his own high.

“What should I call you?” You asked innocently, big eyes batting at him as you stood to your feet and moved back onto the soft, plush mattress.

“Call me your master.” You moved onto your hands and knees, feels his gloved hands curl around your ankles and pull your legs further apart, in response you also arched your back even more.

“This is gonna be fun.”

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