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[angelsworks]

Victor creed is not in your master list but you wrote for him hellpppp

Yes I have wrote for him. I started a series for him. Still open to doing requests too. I’ll have to add it on at some point.

[angelsworks]

Next update

[angelsworks]

Goldilocks and the Four Bears

I haven’t written for the cod fandom yet so all the 141 might be terribly out of character. In fact I haven’t written for a while. I appreciate all the people that still read my work and continue to support me. I hope you’re all doing well :)

Poly!141 x reader

Masterlist -> Here (will be made later :))

Warnings: 18+, mature themes, descriptions of torture, injuries and mistreatment, etc

Summary: After escaping from your last mission that had gone terribly wrong, your stumble through the woods leads you to a log cabin.

It was snowing. Fucking snowing.

Any belief in a deity had been long since crushed after the last few months. Well you thought it had been months. Your captors (a small but deadly terrorist group) had failed to provide you with your own calendar and clock. Much like how they had failed to provide you with new clothes to replace your own, that had been ripped and torn and become tattered to the eye.

It was stolen clothes you now wore as you made your escape. Trudging slowly through the already six inch snow, your thoughts trailed to the fresh snow adding to the existing six inches. The size 12 pair of boots were rubbing at your heels with increasing vigour. Leading you to contemplate if bruised skin could blister or not. The guard you’d killed as part of your escape had been good for one thing. Or three things actually. The ill-fitting boots, a loose pair of combat trousers and long sleeved compression shirt.

As you made your way through the terrain you felt a cold chill steadily working it’s way up your trouser leg. Slowly, spreading across the flesh, affecting any skin that wasn’t in direct contact with the trouser material. It made you wish you’d waited for a guard more similar to your stature. While the compression shirt was better than nothing, it was still thin. The flimsy seeming material now doing little to ward off the cold.

Maybe the sudden awareness of the less than ideal weather conditions wasn’t down to your stolen clothes, but the sudden loss of adrenaline. How long had you been running now? Well trudging desperately through the snow, making your way further and further into the thick forrest and fauna.

It was hard to try and map where you’d been, what direction you’d walked in and where you’d come from. It was all white. Every tree looked the same. Every incline became and decline and you’d become disoriented.

Months of abuse, of torture, ofpain. All ignored for a few short hours as you willed your aching body forward. Through trees and snow and stone. Through anything that would put you at a greater distance from them, from Miasma.

They hadn’t transported you. At least you were mostly sure. When you blacked out, you woke in the same dingy cell, on the same dingy floor. Only covered in more bruises or cuts. So you hoped you were where this all started. In Slovenia.

You’d done solo missions before. It was easier that way. One man in, one man out. No one to turn on you or leak information. With Gunner in your ear, nothing ever went wrong. Until it did.

Your objective was to gather intel. To stay under the radar before formulating the next attack. While sneaking around you’d learned just how large their operation was. In turn you’d also learned just how large their base was.

The small outpost hid underground levels. That became clear after your covert operation was blown and you were dragged down to the very heart of the multi-storey building.

Each day (if that’s what you could call them) gave you no indication of the time of day or how much time had passed. They made sure of that. In fact it was the first time in months you’d seen the light of day.

The light that you noticed was now fading apparently, as you looked desperately up into the sky. Grey clouds had rolled in, covering the majority of the sky. The sun was still peaking out from the dense overcast that was rolling further forward. Soon the sky would be covered and the snow fall would quicken.

A few miles back you were struck that no one from Miasma had followed you. You’d expected armed guards to be shooting at you and angry dogs to be tearing at your ankles. Yet you’d had no chase.

Maybe they knew you would get nowhere in the climate. That you’d be weakened by the terrain and from the violence you’d endured. They were right of course. But you didn’t let it stop you.

Even now as you’d gone further, you still felt the burning desire to survive. Granted it dwindled under the ache of your body and the never ending valley of white before you. But you wanted to live. You wanted your revenge.

The final rays of the sun had been clouded and the snow started to pick up. At least your footprints would be covered under the fresh snow. Not that it mattered if all your footprints lead to was a frozen corpse.

Flexing your fingers, you found yourself wishing for gloves. Your toes were long past numb and every injury you’d endured felt like it was waking up. Old cuts that had turned to scars felt fresh, bruises that had yellowed felt like they’d returned to their starting purple colour. Your felt heavy. You felt dense. You felt tired.

Your desire to drive on had dwindled now. The once raging fire was now only a candle. A candle that was down to its wick. The wax around it long since melted and now it was to its edge. Trying to burn the glue that chained it in place. The image made you crave warmth even more.

Was this it?

All the work you’d put in over the years. From a child you had trained for a mission you didn’t fully understand. A mission that belonged to someone else, to Gunner. He’d turned you into a soldier, his perfect soldier.

Is this how his perfect soldier died?

No it wasn’t.

So despite your blue fingers, numb toes and foggy mind, you push on. Just a little further, you tell yourself. Past these trees, past this stream, past more trees.

Your doubts evaporate when you come upon a clearing. You find a decent space boarded by snow dusted trees from all sides. They stand tall, seemingly acting as natural walls to protect those inside. The grass is covered in undisturbed snow. It’s thick and white and makes you smile.

None of it matter though because sitting in the middle of it all if your salvation.

A log cabin.

You consider the sight to be a mirage. Created from and low blood sugar, dehydration and desperation. But you trudge on, almost to a stumble speed, as you reach for the door handle.

It’s unlocked.

Despite any moral compass telling you that breaking and entering or trespassing is wrong, you ignore it. You’re hurt, aching and this is a last resort.

You close the thick wooden door behind you. Taking note of the copious locks it has. When you move inside the cabin you find that no one’s home. As quietly as you can on stiff legs, you sneak around the house. Trying to wake up the instincts you’d been trained on.

Enter a room, check your surroundings, check again. Don’t assume anywhere is empty. Threats could be hiding around any corner.

So for each room of the ground floor you do just that. Open door, check the rooms, move on. From your searching you’ve found a large living room, a kitchen, a dining room, a toilet some sort of office/drawing room. The decor gives you no clue as to who’s house you’ve invaded. There are no pictures of people, no personal possessions. It feels surreal. And wrong.

To start with you go back to the living room. Using the large fireplace, stockpile of logs and matches, you start a fire.

Again, better sense would tell you to avoid such an action. To avoid alerting anyone of your presence here. But you decide to put sense aside in a bid for survival. If you didn’t get warm soon you were sure you’d be frozen soon.

Next you go to the kitchen. You rifle through the cupboard in an attempt to find something edible. To your surprise you find the place to be well stocked. Even going as far as having fresh milk in the fridge. The sight confuses you. Send alarm bells ringing in your ears.

There are products in the fridge that are in date. Fresh products. Yet no one is home. It doesn’t make sense.

As you empty a can of soup into a pan you realise, it doesn’t need to. You’re happy to play stupid and see this as all some sort of blessing, some miracle.

While the soup cooks you fill a glass with clean, cold water. Relishing in the taste of something fresh. When you’ve downed the first glass you refill it again. This time with an intention to make it last longer.

After the first spoonful you find that you like vegetable soup very much. Almost burning your mouth as you devour it in a few minutes. Immediately it feels as though you’ve been recharged. The warmth from the fire has spread throughout the ground floor, your fingers have warmed around the bowl of soup and your body no longer feels related to a glacier.

The sky only darkens as you sit by the fire. Basking in the warmth and taking a moment to rest for the first time in months. You don’t imagine ever leaving your spot on the floor. But the promise of a bed upstairs has you moving your legs in that direction.

Before your ascent to the second floor, you strip your clothes and hang them on a drying rack you found to the side of the fire. Now left in the nude.

Upstairs you find multiple bedrooms. All almost identical, except for one at the end of the hall. You assume this is the Cabin’s master bedroom as it’s slightly larger than the others. Inside there’s a wardrobe full of clothes, a full length mirror, a TV, some sort of game station, and of course the larger than most bed.

In the mirror you catch sight of yourself. The cuts of course stand out first. From the slight turn you can muster in your neck, you can see large welts and thin cuts, bruises and scrapes, all littering the previously plain skin. From the front and behind, your legs look like a Jackson Pollock original piece.

Capturing various purple and blues surrounded by smaller splodges of green and brown. With the occasional black blob or two to really contrast the overall tone of the piece.

As a child you had a strange infatuation with your bruises. Likening them to a sticker or badge of achievement. They were easy to come by during training. A strange part of you liked the way they looked on your skin. They acted as a log book of the hits you’d taken, the falls you’d taken, any sort of impacts you’d had. They made you feel strong, maybe even proud too.

Staring into the mirror at your body again, it all seems worthless. You knew you were strong before. You didn’t need months as a prisoner to prove it.

You take a few steps forward to properly look at your face. Who stares back must be a stranger. You haven’t let your eyebrows be this out of shape since you were thirteen. You didn’t have that scar above under your chin before. Your eyes were always so bright and vivid. Not lifeless or hollow or so lost.

With newfound energy you take yourself to the nearest bathroom. That just so happens to be the en-suite in the bedroom. It doesn’t surprise you. Nothing about this abandoned, well stocked cabin does anymore.

Instead you shower in one of the nicest bathrooms you’ve been to in a long time.

At first the water has you freezing. Not due to the temperature but because of the fire it lights on your back. Every scrape, every cut, every burn now being cleaned. The cleanse sets your body alight. In a way you feel the heat is helping you to heal. Granted, all you have to show for it is a mixture of blood and grime, floating slowly down the drain. But it’s more than that.

It’s the last few months being scrubbed off your skin. Your wounds and ailments being shown that this is the end. They can heal in peace. You can heal in peace.

So you take your time. Using any products you can find; shampoos, conditioners, body wash, face wash. You’ve acquired a new razor, fresh from the packet. It’s amazing what a difference shaving your legs and various other places can do to your mood. You’ve always preferred removing the body hair. Afterwards the feeling of smooth legs under a thick duvet made all the work worth it.

The final step, bar drying yourself, was brushing tour yellowing and plaque ridden teeth. The minty taste in your mouth feels unfamiliar but it welcomed nonetheless. Wiping your tongue across the now almost pearly-whites you’re happy with how smooth they feel.

Now showered, shaved and dried, you make you way into the bedroom. Finding the wardrobe and drawers to be filled wit strictly masculine clothes. You pick out a pair of boxers and one of the large white t-shirts to sleep in. The shirt dwarfs you in size, looking more like a dress. Not one that you would wear outside though. Not with the black boxers showering through the material, or your hardened nipples making an appearance.

With your towel back in the bathroom and the lights off, you crawl into bed. Letting out the loudest sigh your sore throat could muster. Then quickly falling asleep on the linen.

It was snowing. In fact it was a fucking blizzard.

A barrage of white, dagger-like snowflakes pelted against the four men. The lack of light and the dense haze of the storm made it impossible to see where they were going. They were all thankful for the less than modern compass. Hidden away at the bottom of Jonny’s bag. When he acquired it was unknown. But the four were grateful nonetheless that the Scott had the dated equipment in is kit.

After their week long training they were ready to fall asleep on the nearest surface. The blizzard they now faced was an unexpected one. Nothing on Price’s radar Gad alerted them to such a storm.

They’d just finished their survival training in the mountains when the first snowflake formed. During the rest of their descent it had only worsened.

As the snow around them thickened they trudged on. Becoming more aware of the weight of their kit, ache of their muscles and chill in their bones. These men were tired, hungry and cold.

After more miles and more words of encouragement from Price, Gaz was sure they were close to the safe house now.

Laswell had been kind enough to let them use the safe house after a particularly gruelling training exercise. It would be the closest thing to a holiday the 141 would get this year. Before the worst of the storm it had the Scotsman joking that he would build a snowman outside. An idea quickly shot down by Ghost in the interest of remaining vigilant to an enemies surrounding the house.

While snowmen were out of the question, snowballs were not. Something Ghost found out, twice, in the back of the head. Turning to see an innocent looking Gaz and Soap.

“You’ll regret that when we’re back on base and you two are on shit duty” the balaclava wearing Brit grumbles.

Soap sighs dramatically, “Oh come on Lt. Dinnae be like that, it was only a joke”.

The threat prompts Kyle to add, “It was all Soaps idea, think he should get shit duties on his own.”

Soap gasps feigning offence, “You bleeding clipe, don’t come knocking on my door when you want someone to warm your bed tonight.”

The comment causes the younger man’s face to heat up and laughs to come from the others.

“That if we get there in this blizzard” the captain quips. Trying to keep morale, but refusing to ignore the sinking feeling that they’ve missed the safe house completely.

“How far now?” Gaz asks, determined not to start pestering like an insolent child. Yet equally determined to have a proper meal and get out of his cold clothes.

“Two klicks north, then we should be there.” Soap tells him, loud enough for the others to hear in the now whipping winds.

“It was two klicks north last time someone asked Soap, are you sure you’re reading that right lad?” Price finds himself asking. Despite his rank, his military expertise and all his training agains the elements, it doesn’t make him immune to the cold. Immune to looking forward to sitting by a fire with a cup of tea in his hands.

Laswell wasn’t one to be stingy with safe house stock. From previous safe houses he’d been to that she had set up, they’d been a home away from home. Proper bedrooms, running water, stocked shelves. Price found himself ready to welcome anything that had four walls, a roof and could shelter him and his men from the storm.

“Two klicks north Captain, I’m sure”. Jonny confirms.

Sure enough, through the dense curtain of blizzard, light emerges. A gentle glow against the black nights sky. The closer they get, the clearer the house becomes.

A log cabin.

A big one at that. The sight is inviting enough to bring a smile to the men’s faces.

“Laswell’s outdone herself this time, fuckin yaldy” soap practically exclaims. Pushing forward to the front of the pack, in an effort to get in first.

“Hold it Jonny,” Simons voice is quiet through the mask, but harsh enough that the others can hear.

Ghost points to the chimney, “someone’s here”.

Sure enough as the others look up, they too see the plumes of smoke, gently rising from the brick chimney.

“Another team captain?” Gaz finds himself asking, while reaching for the know hidden in his thigh holster.

Price finds himself doing the same, “No, we’re the only ones in the country.”

The tension in the air is thick, rivals the thick snow pelting down on them. The four of them stand motionless, a short distance from the front door. Covered head to toe in winter gear, a layer of the snowstorm attached to anything it can stick to.

“Right, there’s only one door. I’ll lead. We’ll secure the ground floor first. Stay silent, we do this quietly.” Price commands. The men nod, moving to grasp their various knives. Following their captain as he moves to the front of the cabin.

With an almost inaudible creek, Price turns the handle of the door. Pushing the oak forward, grateful that it seems to glide over the wooden floors. Allowing him and his men to breach the property without alerting its inhabitants.

Price enters the living room first, signalling for the others to spread out and search the rest of the floor. He does indeed find a crackling fire, yet no one man’s it. The warmth is welcomed, but for the time being he ignores any desire to sit near it and warm himself.

His attention moves to the drying rack set up beside the fire. Upon further inspection of the items he finds combat trousers, a compression t shirt and a pair of large boots, size 12 he gathers from the label on the tongue. The clothes are still damp to the touch, leading him to infer that the intruder arrived a short time ago.

The badge on the arm of the shirt catches his eye. He rips it off the Velcro and examines it up close. An unknown insignia, contractor perhaps? Some new found terrorist group? Price doesn’t know. It’s not one he’s come across before.

Simon searches the kitchen. The space is a decent size, dark too. He blends into the shadows as he checks the space for any sign of life. He finds a empty soup can on one of the worktops. Turning to the sink he notices a single glass and pan siting there.

Once finished in his search he creeps back to the living room. Finding his captain there, along with a stoic looking soap and serious looking Gaz.

Price raises his hand to Simon, showcasing the fabric insignia to him. With cold eyes Ghost runs over the stitchwork. Mind running through the possible groups it could be associated with.

“Any ideas?” Price asks in a hushed voice.

Ghosts silence is a loud enough answer for the group. No

“Whoever they are haven’t been here long. Their clothes are still damp. Large boots, size 12.” Price goes through the details he’s uncovered.

“Men’s?” Gaz asks.

“Most likely”.

“There’s a pan in the kitchen. They’ve had soup. Only one glass.” Ghost reels off.

“We don’t know who we’re dealing with, could be anyone. Stay vigilant. Be prepared for a fight. I’ll take the lead upstairs. Shout if you find anything.” Price commands.

The team follow him single file up the stairs. Weapons at the ready as the sneak up the steps. Footsteps light on the wooden floor.

Price takes the first door, Gaz the second, Ghost the third and Soap the last door at the end of the hallway.

While three of the 141 find their rooms to be empty, Soap stops in the doorway. After almost silently twisting the door handle and letting it slide open, he stands in silence. What he didn’t expect to find was a girl sleep in the master bed, a pretty girl to be exact.

The Scotsman finds himself lost for words. He expected to have to fight someone of his stature. Maybe larger. He expected to walk away with a bruise or two. He feels lost on what to do. Should he wake her? Should he leave her?

Meanwhile the others have gathered in the hallway. Sharing a concerned glance at their teammate.

“What is it soap?” Ghost asked quietly.

“It’s a lass. A bonnie lass at that.” He tells them. Wonder in his tone as he stares at the sleeping girl. Watching as her chest rises and falls at a steady rate. Completely unaware of the four men that have entered the house.

The men collectively frown, walking further to investigate themselves. Sure enough, after they pass the threshold of the master bedroom, they too stand frozen. A girl. Not a man, or group of men. A girl, sleeping in their bed, in their log cabin.

Completely unaware.

[angelsworks]

Your writing is soooo good.

Every time I read it, it’s just:

Hiii

I was wondering if you could write a smut with Simon Riley where the reader is feeling hella insecure because she doesn't look like the women in porn videos? Like she's got a bit of chub and her body type just isn't what Simon gets off to? Like a bunch of comfort and body praise?

If not, totally understand and feel free to ignore <3

ask and i will deliver,sorry for how bad this is writersblock go brrooombrooooomnm

“Say it.”

The blonde behind you ordered, thumb circling around your puffy clit—watching your eyes fall shut and lips open, inhaling shaky breaths. His freehand was groping and digging at your inner thigh, keeping the plush from slamming shut.

“Si—Siigghh.. I’m—I’m..”

Huffing out a heavy breath,he pulled you back against him; watching you in the mirror with subtle awe—you were gorgeous, how could you be so self-depreciating? You’re fuckin’ lying.

“I can’t—S’not true..”

As soon as you said that, he pulled his thumb away and watched you cry out in frustration, withering into a slump beside him, staring at the man.

“But—S’not true, Simon!”

“Yeah? Yr’ not cummin’, then. Simple as that.”

Simon carelessly laid back on the bed, sitting with the bunched up pillows propped beneath his head; rubbing and fisting at his sweatpants to ease his boner, glaring at you with stern unease.

“Why’re y’insecure? Yr’ gorgeous, if y’werent, I wouldn’t be gettin’ hard anytime I see ‘y.”

“I don’t—I don’t look like..The girls in the videos.”

When you sniffled that out, he immediately scowled and pinched your calf, sitting up to look at you headon, shaking his head.

“And? You look fuckin’ better. Id rather shag my bird than some trashy pornstar.”

Sniffling, you leant forward to rest against him, his hands gently sliding up your sides—pressing soft, calculated kisses and bites to your neck, kneading at your breasts without any shame, feeling your breath hitch for a moment.

“You’re perfect.”

A pause, and a few hiccups.

“..M’perfect.”

“Perfect, goodwoman.”

Within seconds, he was crawling to rest between your thighs, kissing at the soft chub of your pretty tummy, coercing your thighs apart with a hand; he looked so ethereal there, heavy lidded eyes looking up at you like you were gods gift, lips pursed as he splayed gentle kisses to your cunt, your heart pounding in your chest as he licked a long stripe up your dampening folds.

“What did we—What did we go over?”

Simon asked—Well, mumbled, burying his face between your cunt and sucking, tongue flickering up and down, savouring your taste in his mouth.

“M’—Oh, god..M’perfect n’—Hmn..And I—Nn’ I deserve t’cum.. Please Simon..”

Smirking, the fairhaired individual ate your cunt like his life depended on it—Two fingers sliding into your tight hole and curling ever-so-slightly upwards to hit that gummy spot, making your eyes roll back and slam shut, and back arch up and off of your bed.

The knot in your stomach tightened, orgasm pending so quickly that you could barely process it; fingers digging into your blankets with heavy pants, his tongue making soft scribbles on your sensitive clit.

“Caannt—Ohmg..Can’t hold it back—Simon..”

Your pleas made his cock harden, fingers increasing in speed as they thrusted into your cunt eagerly; his eyes shutting as you let out a soft squeal, thighs trembling as your orgasm hit your limp body, the man between your thighs made a soft humming sound as he lapped at your cunt like an eager dog, before pulling back to look up at his gorgeous girl.

Rough, calloused hands moved to rest on your stomach—thumb brushing over the plush skin with adoration, your cheeks flushed and eyes hazy, drool almost rolling down your chin, it was shameful, really!

“Fuckin’pretty girl.”

“My prettygirl.”

[angelsworks]

what are things you don’t write?

I’m not sure really. If I’ve got an ask that I wouldn’t write, I think I’d just respond and say I wasn’t comfortable.

If it kept happening then I would make a list I think. It hasn’t happened yet though.

Thanks for asking 🖤

[angelsworks]

Love this moodboard 🖤

photos from my kyle gaz garrick inspo pinterest board !

[angelsworks]

Naughty or Nice Challenge

For this challenge, you get to choose if you're Naughty or Nice. Below you will find two sets of prompts, naughty or nice, to choose from. While this challenge marks the end of year season, they do not need to be festive in theme, however we do encourage you to incorporate any of your cultural or personal holiday pasttimes.

This is an event for November and December, with a final due date of January 5, 2024 for late submissions.

ℝ𝕦𝕝𝕖𝕤

🩷 This challenge is open to all fandoms and characters.

💜 Dark creations are accepted but we will not accept underage, incest, or bestiality. Please don’t forget to add warnings to your works appropriately.

❤️ For written pieces, there are no word count limits, but we do ask that you add a “read more” beyond 500 words.

🩵 We hope that creators can create an inclusive work and encourage writers and creators to use appropriate tagging, ie, f!reader, etc..

💙 For this challenge, we will accept sequels or continuations to previous works. Please be sure to link the original work in your submission.

💚 Creators may submit three pieces of each medium (up to three visual pieces and up to three written pieces)

💛 Be kind to yourself and to others. We are here to support and include each other.

!Tag this blog in your submission so we see it.!

🩷💜🩵Prompts below the cut🩵💜🩷

𝐍𝐚𝐮𝐠𝐡𝐭𝐲

“All I need is you beneath me.”

“Don’t tell anyone.”

“I know it hurts, baby, but I feel so good.”

“What would they say if they knew?”

“You’re going to have to cry a little more if you want me to care.”

“I didn’t ask you to talk. I said do it.”

“Do it or I’ll make it hurt.”

“Do I sound like I’m joking?”

“If I have to tell you one more time.”

“If you didn’t want to hurt, you shouldn’t have hurt me.”

“Don’t look away.”

“Smile pretty for me.”

“Enough whining.”

“I’ve been watching for so long, I can’t wait any longer.”

“I saw the way you look at them. You don’t look at me like that.”

“You deserve this.”

“I love how weak you are.”

“If you didn’t want this, you’d behave.”

“No one else is gonna take care of you like I do.”

“You’re so pathetic it gets me off.”

“I wanna hear how much it hurts.”

“It’s so cute when you try so hard.”

“I want everyone to know who you belong to.

“I better not catch you looking at them again.”

“Sit down and shut up.”

𝒩𝒾𝒸𝑒

“You’ve never looked more beautiful.”

“Don’t ever let me go.”

“I dream about you every night.”

“I can’t wait to see you again.”

“Can I hold your hand?”

“Wait, are you asking me out?”

“I made this for you.”

“You’re going to spoil the surprise.”

“I’ll do it, but it’ll cost you a snuggle.”

“I’ve never met anyone like you.”

“You could have just told me.”

“It’ll be okay. I’m here.”

“You forgot something. A kiss.”

“I’ll go with you… if you want.”

“This is the best night of my life.”

“I remember when we met. I’ll never forget.”

“You make my stomach do this thing.”

“I made us a picnic, but it’s raining and I’m lost.”

“Every time you look at me, I melt a little.”

“You’re never going to get rid of me.”

“There is no me without you.”

“You really did all this for me?”

“Kiss it better.”

“I wanna be more than friends.”

“I never hated you. I just didn’t want you to know how much I liked you.”

[angelsworks]

Yandere! Edward Cullen Headcannons

Summary: What Edward Cullen would be like as a yandere

Warnings: 18+ yandere themes, manipulative behaviour, brief mention of violence

When you moved to forks you didn’t expect much. Much about the town, much about the school or much about your future classmates.

During the summer (if you can even call it that with all the rain), you unpacked and tried to acclimatise to the dreary weather of the town before the start of the next school year.

The first day of school went as well as you’d expect. Everyone was welcoming and friendly, wanting to know about the new family in town.

During the day your arrival had been compared to the last family arrival in forks. The Cullens. A family that kept to themselves despite the curious number of students around them.

Despite the very obvious beauty an allure each of the Cullens had, you weren’t interested. You just wanted to keep your head down and get through your classes.

Your lack of interest came as a welcome surprise to the majority of the Cullens. At least one person didn’t stare at them like a science project.

But the one Cullen who didn’t enjoy it, the one person who wanted your attention more than anything, Edward.

Over the summer he’d watched you move into your home. A home Esme had helped decorate. When he left to hunt he’d check on you afterwards. He’d watch you in your room as you relaxed or slept.

Your thoughts were unlike the other minds he read. They weren’t clouded with him or his family. He found yours a much needed reprieve from the minds of his classmates.

He was waiting for the day when he could finally see you, meet you. Yet all he could feel was disappointment when you wouldn’t even look him in the eyes.

You shared some of the same classes, but sat next to him in none. You walked the same hallways, but never at the same time. You parked in the same parking lot, but never in a space near his.

A few weeks in he began to lose hope. His obsession was growing while a relationship with you was not.

Finally after the weeks of waiting a group project put the two of you together. Edward couldn’t be happier but he his his feelings of course. Not wanting you to question why the sombre cullen was now alight with joy.

You had a hard time working on the project with Edward. Whenever you set aside time to work together he’d keep you talking. Distracting you from the work at hand.

Having his attention wasn’t a bad thing by any means. In fact his gaze on you sent you blushing and filled you with butterflies. It was the project being incomplete that worried you.

The next time you had a meet up planned with Edward you cancelled. Telling him something had come up. He knew for certain nothing had. In fact you just needed to get your work done before the deadline.

If only you knew that he’d completed the project already. Both your share and his own. Just so you could keep talking.

After the project he’d made excuses to talk to you. Claiming you’d left a pencil or jacket at his house. You found it strange as you were sure you’d seen such items in your hamper earlier in the day.

Any questions floated away with one of his dazzling smiles.

After enough chatting he’s finally built enough of a friendship with you to ask you out.

From there he slowly started to drop the perfect boyfriend facade. He would ask you were you were when you weren’t with him, who you were with, where you were going. It felt like he was a third parent to you. Albeit a overprotective, helicopter one.

He would text you, call you all hours of the day if you weren’t in class or asleep. Even when you were asleep he was at your house.

Whenever you started to think of his behaviour and how uncomfortable it made you, he would switch it back on. Switch on the perfect boyfriend routine. For a few weeks at least. Making you wonder if you were just imagining it.

He wouldn’t tell you about him being a vampire, not unless he had to.

If such a situation were to arise he would use it to control you. Claiming a vampire had set their sights on you and he needed to take you somewhere safe.

Why would you question him. He was your boyfriend after all. He’d never hurt you before.

If at any point you do think he’s lying he’s not above faking an attack on your family. The traumatic event sending you back into his arms. Making you dependent on him.

When he’s ready he’ll suggest turning you into a vampire. Making a show of how he loves you and how he only want to protect you.

You of course would agree, wanting to be with him for the rest of your life.

Even as a newborn he’ll keep you isolated. Suggesting that he take you somewhere for your first few months. An idea that the rest of the Cullens can’t agree with fast enough.

He teaches you to hunt and how to use your senses. All the while hiding the fact he can read your mind. So any thought of going exploring or for a run away from him is quickly squished.

You’re his and you have no way of devising an escape or realising what he’s doing while he’s got a window into your head.

[angelsworks]

Sheep in Wolf’s Clothing

Chapter Two

Series Masterlist -> Here

Summary: How you came to be.

Warnings: 18+, ddlg themes, hints of little!reader, death of a family member, graphic descriptions of death, mentions of slavery, etc

Note: This is a description chapter with lots of backstory.

Born a Saxon. Raised a Dane. Now pretending to be a sorceress.

You had your reasons of course. Those reason also being Hakon’s. As to be expected as the clans chieftain. As your chieftain.

You remember little of your childhood. At a young age your settlement was raided by Hakon’s father and you amongst others were taken as Thrall, slaves to the clan.

It was a shield maiden called Frigg who had pity for you. The small snivelling girl, in a dress too thin for their weather. As you grew you heard what people thought of Frigg’s kindness. How they soured it with their own theories. Not too long before you were taken prisoner by the clan did Frigg lose her husband. The stress of which causes her unborn baby to pass on. From that people assumed the sight of a struggling young girl struck a cord with the shield maiden. Playing on her maternal instincts and the recent loss, causing her to take you in.

Whatever her reasons you did not care. She treated you even better than your own family did and you loved her dearly for it. Together you shared a small hut near Hakon and his family.

When Frigg and Hakon’s father would leave on raids you would stay with Hakon and his mother. Both were kind to you. It wasn’t long before the two of you became good friends.

As you grew the two of you would play in the wood and fight with sticks. Pretending to be your parents as you fought your many pretend enemies. All of which took the form of the lanky bark covered trees.

With Friggs help you learnt how to fight. To you she was a god in her own right, she was strong, fast and could use any weapon she got her hands on. Everyone in the clan knew what an asset Frigg was.

Through the many years of training with Frigg and Hakon you became good with a sword and axe. You had dreams of becoming a shield maiden just like Frigg.

On evening a few weeks after your sixteenth birthday you and Frigg went to hunt in the woods. It was a common occurrence for the two of you. It gave the two of you time to practice your archery skills.

While lying in wait for a deer you were ambushed by another group of Dane’s. One Hakon’s Father had raided once or twice. An act which created bad blood between the two of you. With only a bow an arrow between the two of you, you were outnumbered. No match for the four burly men with wrath in their eyes and iron in their hands.

With tears in her eyes Frigg pushed you towards the village, knowing your speed could get your far away and out of danger. She pleaded that you go and get help, to save yourself. But you knew if you left now you wouldn’t see again. With another push you wet running, adrenaline pumping through your body as you forced your legs to keep pounding on the Forrest floor.

When your reached the village you screamed out for help, the sound quickly drawing a crowd. You stutterer and stumbled over the words you wanted to say, your brain working into overdrive as panic ceased your body. Cursing yourself afterwards for not being more direct with your words.

A group of the clans best fighters was assembled and lead by Hakon’s father to the woods. Meanwhile you were sent to Hakon and his mother. The boy held you close as your cried for Frigg. The woman who had been your mother for the majority of your life.

You knew when they returned it wouldn’t be with Frigg alive. Despite the hours thinking about it, it still didn’t prepare you for the sight of her.

You once warm loving mother covered in blood and mud. Her body limp in Hakon’s fathers arms. As they passed you saw her eyes were open and staring at nothing.

The sight did nothing to stop your tears. Instead it only brought bile to your throat, making you bend over and spill your guts. Your body ceased as it was wrapped in rope. Tightly tied to the point you felt you couldn’t breathe.

Only a few days after Friggs death was her funeral. The clan stood around a clearing where a pyre was placed in the centre. On that wooden pyre was Friggs body, now cleaned and dressed and wrapped in white cloth for your benefit. It was your first time seeing a Dane funeral. Before the event Hakon had to explain what happened and what you would have to do.

In Dane tradition it was the next of kin who sent their fallen to Valhalla. Meaning it was down to you to light Friggs body so her spirit could enter the hall of warriors.

You knew this was what she wanted. But when it came down to it, to lighting her on fire, you ceased. Your hand shook as it hold the wooden torch, tears falling down your cheeks. With a final deep breath you held the torch under the pyre until the kindling caught fire.

From then until night you watched the fire grow and her body burn. It burned for days, until a storm put an end to the flames. For those days of fire you sat a distance away and watched. Wanting to watch her go.

After Friggs death you were lost. You didn’t want to eat, to sleep, to train. Previous dreams of being a shield maiden felt like wishes of another life. One where Frigg wasn’t dead and you could feel anything but grief again.

For your friend it was too much to see. The once soon to be shield maiden, taking after her mother figure, now lying in her tears each day and night. He saw that your eyes had become lifeless in the next few weeks after her life. The sight reminded him of Friggs own in his fathers arms. It was like you had become a walking corpse. Barely eating, barely sleeping, barely acknowledging the world around you.

The watching you and feeling helpless to your grief mounted on Hakon’s shoulders. The last straw for him was noticing how your figure had thinned and your once full face seemed hollow. Hollow of fat, hollow of life.

A night no different than all those after the funeral. A night spent crying in your bed, curled in on yourself. A night Hakon chose to confront you.

He practically barged into your hut angry with your behaviour. His words were harsh but they quickly melted into uneven tones and voice cracks as the boy almost cried. Throat tight as the guilt of watching his friend crumble and fade away in front of his eyes caught up with him in that moment. He felt helpless to your state. How could he help you when you didn’t want to help yourself?

Somewhere in the transition from angry to anguish, Hakon sat on your bed. Gingerly you crawled over to him, sitting on his lap and hugging him tightly. He wrapped his arms around you, tightly.

For the rest of the night the two of you didn’t move. Hakon had this affect on you. Being tightly wrapped in his arms made you feel like you weren’t about to fall apart. A contrast to how you’ve felt over the last few weeks.

You thought it would be a one time thing but the next night Hakon appeared in your home again. You sat and spoke sporadically. He held you again and that safe feeling washed over you once more.

It happened each night from then. Hakon holding you, speaking to you softly, making you feel safe, making you feel small. Occasionally, you’d reach a headspace where you wouldn’t talk much or would fiddle with his fingers.

For you it helped you heal heart from the grief that entrapped it. For Hakon he enjoyed only having to focus on one thing for a few hours, on you. It took him away from his duties in the Clan and helped him relax. Just in a different way to you.

Anyone could see that you were getting better. Finally eating, finally sleeping, finally starting to live again. During the day you’d train like you used to. This time without Frigg and with some of the other men and women in the clan. During the night you’d embrace your friend as you fell into a safe, smaller place.

At times you wondered if Hakon wanted to stop. After all he was close to manhood and spending his nights with you wasn’t all that exciting. Thoughts like those were cast aside by the boy. He promised he liked helping you, he told you that he enjoyed caring for you and if anything changed he would tell you.

When he sat with you in your hut he was your protector and you his little maiden.

Your night and day roles started to blur when Hakon’s father passed away. It was years after Friggs passing that the Chief of the clan died.

The shift in power lead to an ever growing need for Hakon in the village. It meant pushing his grief aside and dealing with the new responsibilities as Chief.

You supported him as your friend and as your Chief as well as you could. But it wasn’t enough. Soon Hakon asked for you during the day, during his meetings. You’d sit quietly on his lap like a little doll. To him you were his good luck charm, his stress reliever. You helped him get through the day.

Despite the odd looks at first you quickly got over it and enjoyed getting to be in your safe place more often. Anyone who had a problem with you and your practices had to deal with their new Chief.

It hasn’t been more than six moons when Hakon was truly tested as Chief.

A Fort belonging to an ailing lord was seen by scouts. They reported the holding having more people coming in and out. Merchants, traders and wanderers all travelling in and out of the previously quiet fort.

The new activity was noted by Hakon. It was then that his new idea was born. Or more accurately the new you was born.

He proposed you play a game of pretend. You would pretend to be a witch. You would spout spells and paint your face with runes and markings. All to add to the ruse Hakon wanted to create.

When traders would travel up and down the now active roads, you would appear and start your act. Effectively scaring the traders off with your threats of spells, while Hakon and the others would wait in hiding. When the traders and merchants and wanderers eventually ran from their wares, Hakon would lead the others to take the goods.

For a few weeks you’d stolen plenty and frightened many. So many in fact the tale of an evil witch was spread. Spread to nearby towns, to the traders on route to ironwood holding and most importantly to Ironwood himself.

The ailing Lord had no strength to retaliate, but his son did. The man was ten years your senior. You hadn’t seen him in person before but heard from scouts that the recent raids on traders had left a sour taste in his mouth.

The next few travellers carts were more heavily guarded. It took a few days to plan the next attack. This time you brought a few tricks with you.

This time you stood in the middle for the road. As a guarded cart rolled towards you, you threw a bottle of spirit on the floor. From somehere in the Forrest a flaming arrow set it alight.

As guards started to surround you you threatened that they stay away or else a curse would be placed upon them. They were skeptical, as most were that you came across. You started your chanting as you threw some soil into the fire. Frigg taught you that soil found near copper could change the colour of flames.

The green flames caused the unease in the men around you to rise. They fled from the scene quickly. Hakon and the others descended upon the now unguarded goods.

After returning the Clan celebrated their biggest take yet. A celebration that lasted all day and night. The high mood of the clan ended the next day. Word spread of the Old lords demise, which was being put down to you.

The now new Lord Ironwood had declared you the reason for his fathers dead. He’d put a bounty on your head and hired multiple mercenaries to do the job of bringing you to him.

The price on your head meant you were no longer safe going anywhere on your own. The stres of being hunted only put you in your safe place more often.

Under Hakon’s orders you weren’t to leave the village alone. When you did you had some of his best fighters following you.

No one had yet been successful in delivering you to the new, vengeful Lord. But you had a feeling your spell of evading his forces was about to be up.

Glossary:

Hakon - Meaning high born son

Frigg - Meaning beloved

[angelsworks]

Sheep in Wolf’s Clothing

Chapter One

Series Masterlist -> Here

Pairing: Yandere! Uhtred x reader

Summary: After hearing of a Lord in need of help, Uhtred and his allies investigate.

Warning: None for this chapter

Note: This series is inspired by the S3 E1 of The Last kingdom. Only if the witch Uhtred takes captive is innocent.

A simple job. That’s what it was supposed to be.

Word had spread from taverns in towns up and down Northumbria, the current territory Uhtred and his men found themselves in. Word passed from Patron to barmaid, barmaid to townsfolk, townsfolk to Uhtred and his allies.

The travelling Lord had attracted quite the audience at the latest town they’d come across. He’d been welcomed and housed, clothed and bathed, fed and watered. Watered with the finest ale the towns little tavern had to offer.

The size of the tavern lead to the horde of curious townsfolk to be crammed in tightly to one another. Elbows to elbows they sat. Words of one man being heard by many.

The close proximity of the masses had Uhtred lending his ear to a raving drunkard. A man who drank his ale between loud shouts of a troubled Lord far north, who was desperately in need of help. Despite the clumsy nature of his swigs, he continued to tell his tale as he drank. Spinning the story that this lord was overrun with Danes desperate to take his holdings. They worked closely with a supposed sorceress who had been cursing the Lord and his men. Rumours spread that she had killed the current lords father through a curse. The lord now desperate to end the wicked sorceress had appealed for help. For the task of ridding the Lord of the Danes and witch they worked with, he would reward handsomely.

After quiet whispers between the four and a back alley chat with the teller of the tale, the group left for Upper Northumbria. The place where Lord Ironwood resided with his apparent hefty fortune.

The lord that the met was younger than Uhtred and some years older than Osferth. He made no kind introduction. He was direct about his task and clear about the price.

Despite his harsh nature he did provide for them with prime meats and mead to be shared inside his fort. Uhtred and his men were permitted to light a fire that they sat around to eat.

The fort itself was well thought out. It has large walls with guards walking across. At each corner a watchtower of sorts was built. Inside the Fort there were the very basic of buildings. A stable for the few horses they had, a small square that acted as a meeting point, a town hall and a barracks. A final building off to the side of the town hall they’d come to learn was Lord Ironwoods own residence.

The simplicity of the facilities was far from the problem. It was the run down nature of the buildings and sense of unease that surrounded them. Stone bricks of the wall were weathered and beaten, as if attacked through years of war and rain. Some of the wood on the buildings showed signs of Charing and had blackened because of it. The few horses they did have were in poor health and looked unkept. It felt as if the Fort had been attacked ten times over with the damage seen in every place. It seemed as if their Dane problem was vastly understated. It was clear now that more was going on than they originally thought.

Everything they’d seen lead them to the same thoughts, where was the gold? Surely if this Lord Ironwood had such funds he would spend them wisely. So they he didn’t have to live in such squalor.

When Uhtred brought these thoughts to the Lord in question he directed them to a hidden set of stairs behind the town hall. Stairs covered by bushes and protected by a wooden hatch. A wooden hatch protected with a thick metal padlock. The only key was wrapped on twine around the Lord’s throat.

The stairs lead them to a small room filled with chests. After opening one of the chests they saw an array of coins and trinkets and jewellery. The golden currency accepted universally by the group.

Even with the promise of payment, thoughts of unease still plagued Lord Uhtred’s mind. Why with such wealth was the job not done? Surely he had enough resources to rid himself of the Danes.

Uhtred wasn’t alone in his thoughts. Finan, Sihtric and Osferth sat around the fire, chewing on fresh game while mulling over the task at hand.

“While I’m with you on some details being a bit blurry Lord Uhtred, the man provides a good meal and good gold for killing a few Danes. Something you’ve often done for free.” Finan reasons while tearing into a leg of rabbit.

“It’s details that are missing from the man’s story. Things that just don’t add up.” He tells the Irishman in reply. Drinking a tankard of ale in small enough sips.

“Listen Lord, sometimes details get muddled when telling stories. Once I heard of a woman with such huge breasts, yet when I slept with her-” The Irishman digresses. Ready to jump into a story of his past conquests. A pass time not out of the ordinary for the man.

“Finan,” the Dane starts, cutting off the Irishman. “This is more than that. I feel it in my gut. Something about this is wrong. Something about this Lord is wrong.”

“I’d say it’s the taste of good food for the first time in a while mate.” Finan jokes, raising a smile from the quiet monk and the bastard Dane also in their company.

“He pays more than most Lord. Stories are bound to have holes with the amount of men they’ve been through.” Sihtric adds causing Finan to laugh and producing a chortle from Osferth that he quickly covers.

Normally Uhtred would find humour in anything his company would say. The men joke as often as they drink. The two often simultaneous done. When not fighting their time was spent enjoying the spoils that came with his Lordship. Including his permanent home in Coocham, the barrels of ale they were given for free and the many, many women found willing at the taverns they frequented.

Even so he was no young man anymore. No war hungry Dane, desperate to make his mark on the land he’d called home for so long. He had a home, a place to rest after weeks of ridding aback a steed and sleeping in beds not his own. It was a luxury he couldn’t spoil through the desires greed presented.

“I am a lord and you my noble men,” the sentiment made Finan smirk. Feeling anything but noble sat in a crumbling town hall and drinking piss weak mead.

“We are no mercenaries.”

The weight the words held resonated with each man. True they were not mercenaries. Mercenaries didn’t have a permanent place to rest in Coocham. Mercenaries didn’t have a sense of comradeship like these four men had. Years spent together had proven their loyalty to one another and created tight bonds they valued more than any amount of gold. It wasn’t to be thrown away over some Lord.

The three men sat silently as they drank from their tankards. Ale pouring down their throats as they mulled over their Lord and more importantly friend’s words. Deciding whether Lord Ironwoods gold truly had any value to them now.

The next day the four travelled out into the surrounding area. After trotting down the small hill that the fort sat on, they reached a woodland. Dense woodland that surrounded the Fort on three sides. A disadvantage if any enemies were to to hide in and surround the fort. Thoughts of a siege passed through Uhtred’s mind. Thoughts that soured as he thought of the little food Lord Ironwood possessed. Land around his holding was unfit to grow a weed nevermind a yield of crops. From the meal they shared last night it became apparent that the woodland was heavily relied upon for small game or food or any kind.

“The hill gives us the advantage if it comes to a fight, but the surrounding Forrest is thick enough to hide a host of any size.” Sihtric voices, having thought the same as Uhtred at the scenery.

“Hill? I’ve seen mounds of dirt bigger that that thing. Just say what we’re all thinking, that if it comes to a fight the fort would hold no host back. A host of page boys and age old knights could storm that fort.” Finan proclaims.

“Ever the optimist, Finan the Agile.” Osferth quips, sarcasm thick in his quiet voice. It works to ease the tension among them but doesn’t remove the ever hanging unease present in the air. The fort would be futile to defend and the men can’t help but feel that their task is becoming less and less do able.

“Still we carry on. Ironwood told us they’d been attacking from the east. So we ride there, see if we can catch sight of these Danes and get an idea of their forces.” Uhtred commands.

They carry on in the direction of the Dane’s. Traveling through the never ending trees. Even when they think they’ve made it through they reach a clearing or open field, surrounded by more trees. It seems never ending.

At one point Uhtred stops the pack. A distant sound puts him on high alert. The joining of voices can be heard in the distance. From there they dismount their horses and walk on foot. Treading carefully through the Forrest undergrowth. Voice grow louder and music can be heard. A single harp cuts the voices as they quiet in union. Soft music fills the air, a contrast to the loud choir that preceded it. It lasts little before it comes to its final note and is swept up in the chorus once more. This time in a company with the beating of drums. Drums that almost shake the ground the men now walk on.

Keeping a few tree rows back they silently watch the scene before them. A vast settlement meets their eyes. It reminds Uhtred and Sihtric alike of their childhood homes. Both houses and building being mostly the same. It’s clear this is a Dane village, not only from the buildings but from the people that reside here.

In front of their hiding place in the Forrest a celebration of sorts takes place. In the middle of the social space a large fire roars on, filling the air with a smoke and the distinct burning wood smell. Around the fire the Dane’s dance carelessly, faces content and worries non. To the sides makeshift benches have been made from tree logs and boulders. The space is brimming with people. Some sharing a meal or mead, others talking joyously to one another. The celebration is exuding euphoria. A feeling that almost spreads to the men crouched amongst bushes.

The voices quiet once more as the single harp plays on. Between the sea of people a woman steps out amongst them. Wearing a white gown and no shoes, her hair wild and free. Her face bares lines of ash on her forehead and down the middle of her chin. Her voice carries across the fire above all the rest.

“Hear us Odin, hear our prayer,” she pulls a knife from her side and slits her hand across the palm.

“Grant us victory against our the Saxon scum so we may lay waste to their crumbling Fort and kill the Lord that sits there.” As she finishes she flicks her blood into the fire and the flames become viridescent.

The green flames dance higher in the air. Leaping up into the sky as more smoke rises with it. Consuming the logs at the base with greater vigour than before. It raises cheers from those around the fire and they start back up in song.

Voices join in one chorus:

Dance the emerald flames up high

Find our fallen in the sky

Hear our cry and hear our prayer

Death to Saxons everywhere

The chilling undertone does little to take from the merriment of the people singing. They all smile, dance and laugh as the flames slowly fade from emerald back to a burning orange.

Across the fire the girl walks around the dancers and the singers and the drinkers. She walks to a man sat off to the side on a makeshift throne. Made from the stump of a tree. Carved with runes and symbols familiar to most Danes.

The man is clearly Dane. His beard is long and his hair braided. His eyes are dark and his face stern. He spreads himself to take up the entirety of the throne. Looking unmoved by the jovial mood around him.

When the girl approaches him his eyes glance up. Taking in her toned form adorned in a white. A smile ghosts his face as he welcomes her on to his lap. Pulling her so she sits with her back to one of the arm rests.

She nestles into the man’s embrace, hiding herself away. While the Dane looks over her cut palm.

Without explanation Uhtred feels a tug at his heart. As if he’d lost a love, a love he’d not yet known. Strange as it was he couldn’t explain it. Explain why such a sight made him intrigued, made him curious about the girl. Why the nature of their embrace made him jealous, made him envious. Why the dress that clung to her skin filled him with a yearning, filled him with a desire for her.

For her body, for her soul, for her.

The feeling strange but the feeling right. Something about her drew him in. Fate was the only answer. It was clear now. This was fate.

This girl would be his.

[angelsworks]

Sheep in Wolf’s Clothing Moodboard

Full fic coming soon 🖤

[angelsworks]

run until you feel your lungs bleeding (ghost x reader)

summary: You're on the run after finally escaping from your abusive husband's clutches, hitchhiking south along California highways. A strange man in a black mask picks you up, and it doesn't take you long to realize that not every hand offered should be taken.

word count: 6.5k

cw: dark fic!, noncon somnophilia, referenced abuse from a past partner, ghost does not care about reader's feelings, mentioned drinking while driving but no intoxication

read on ao3 - see the pinterest board

One of your blisters is about to burst. You’d worn through your only pair of clean socks yesterday, leaving the back of your heel vulnerable to your old tennis shoes and their vendetta against your feet. You can feel your skin rubbing thinner and thinner with each step, know it’s only a matter of time before you’ve got blood flowing freely into your shoe. 

You keep your left arm stretched out, thumb held up in the hope that someone will take pity on your limping form and give you a ride.

It’s not likely, you’ve been hitchhiking for days now and not a single person has slowed down. You’ve got no real destination, just a goal of putting as much space between you and your piece of shit ex-husband as possible. Your end goal is Arizona - you’ve got an aunt somewhere in Scottsdale, if you can get to her you can only hope she’ll help you get back on your feet.

A few people honk as they drive by. In the two days you’ve been walking, none have stopped. You take short power naps at night off the side of the road, pray to every god you can think of that you don’t get run over or eaten by something.

You haven’t yet. But you know if you don’t get a good night's sleep soon, don’t start putting actual distance between him and you, then you might not survive your escape.

The sun is at its apex when the semi-truck pulls up beside you. It’s black, the trailer attached is plain white with no logo painted on. You can hardly believe your luck, gape up at the massive thing as it slows. The door pops open a moment after the truck rolls to a stop, but it’s so high up that you can’t see who’s driving past their hand - gloved - before they pull it back.

You don’t have the luxury of asking questions. You just stumble over, flinching back with a little hiss when you place your palm on the metal of the truck and burn your hand. It takes a minute to finagle your way into the truck, but you manage it eventually, huffing and puffing all the way up. 

The first thing you notice about the man in the driver’s seat is his size - he’s big. Bigger than any man you’ve seen before. You just reach his shoulders even with both of you sitting down, his legs are spread so wide his knees nearly rest on his door and the gearshift, his head is close to brushing the roof. He’s just… big.

He’s wearing a black neck gaiter pulled up to cover his mouth and nose, which strikes you as odd considering he’s driving on his own, but you brush the thought off. His hair is blond, greasy and limp on his scalp, you doubt he did more than run his fingers through it getting out of bed. His eyes are blue, a light shade that surprises you for some reason. You don’t know a thing about this man, certainly not enough to be surprised by anything about him, but the blond hair and the blue eyes… it doesn’t quite fit with the black gloves and the mask.

He’s reclined back in his seat, one hand resting on the wheel and the other on his thigh, eyes scanning you like a king his subject. His eyes linger on your tiny shorts (sleep shorts, what you’d been wearing the night of your escape), skip right past the sluggishly bleeding scrapes on your knees and scan your ratty backpack.

You hope he won’t ask you to empty it. You’d like to keep your gun for as long as possible, can’t imagine this trucker would be ok with the hitchhiker he just picked up having a loaded weapon.

He doesn’t speak when he finally makes eye contact with you. You can’t hold it for long at all, only manage a few seconds before you’re glancing around his truck.

He doesn’t speak. Neither do you.

His car reeks of smoke. There’s a beer bottle in his cup holder, open and helf empty. There are more bottles - empty - by your feet. He doesn’t have the radio playing.

When you look back at him, his eyes are already trained on yours. You can’t help but flinch - the intensity of his gaze feels suffocating, even after only a few seconds of being held under it.

You work up the nerve to speak, take a few deep breaths and a few more long looks around the truck, the space this man spends most of his days in.

There are cigarette stubs on the dashboard, which has clearly been used as a makeshift ashtray. The seats are old, the leather peeling and tempting you to pick, and the dash itself is sunbleached.

“I’m trying to go to Arizona,” you finally say, flickering your eyes quickly to his and away again. His jeans are worn - but naturally worn, like he’s had them for months and washed them so many times they’ve lost their color. “Are… are you heading that direction?”

You look at him long enough to see him incline his head a bit. You don’t think he’s blinked since you got in the car.

“Goin’ south,” he affirms. His voice is a low grumble, British accented. Not necessarily unsurprising to hear in California, but a shock from a truck driver. “I’ll drop you somewhere along the way.”

He pulls away from the shoulder with that and turns away from you, apparently finished with the interaction. 

Being dropped somewhere along the way isn’t necessarily your ideal situation, but your feet scream in relief at the lack of pressure, so you’re certainly not going to complain.

You shift a little further back in your seat, tuck the backpack between you and the passenger door. He could reach it if he wanted, but keeping yourself between this stranger and your prized possessions feels like the right choice. You think about propping your feet up on the dashboard, but decide you don’t want to seem too rude to your apparent savior.

You look out the window. You’ve never been in a car this high, and even the flat California highways look more interesting at a new vantage point. It’s easier to focus on the far-off mountains than the giant beside you.

“So,” you cough lightly, awkward in the relative silence of the truck. The engine is loud, but the driver’s radio is dead silent. “What’s your name?”

He grunts, gives no other response. You glance over to him, a little unsure of yourself. Had you made that bad of a first impression somehow?

He doesn’t turn to you, and he doesn’t answer your question.

Alright, you tell yourself. Maybe he does this all the time, maybe he’s tired of making small talk with homeless and desperate hitchhikers. That’s probably it.

You don’t give him your name. Instead, you tuck your feet up to the seat beneath your thighs, turn your body fully to the passenger window, fold your arms on the windowsill and lay your chin on your elbows.

The drive is smooth enough for you to relax, even though you know that logically you shouldn’t. You’re a young woman who’s just gotten into a car with a strange and intimidating man who could very clearly physically overpower you. Nobody knows where you are. You should have a hand on your gun already, ready for anything the driver might try.

But you’ve been walking for days, and hadn't been sleeping well before that either. You haven’t had a good night’s sleep since your wedding night. The low rumble of the engine, the heat of the sun beaming through the glass, the surprisingly gentle motions of the truck…

You don’t quite let yourself fall asleep, but it’s a near thing.

———————————————————————

The two of you stay like that for hours. Your benevolent driver seemingly comfortable in his silence with you drowsy and relaxing in his passenger seat. You don’t stay in the same position for more than an hour or two at once, shifting your legs and always keeping any pressure off your feet.

You’d like to pull your shoes off, to ask if the man has any band-aids. Maybe any food, any water. But you can’t risk pissing him off, not when your other options are nonexistent. So you settle for slow movements, trying to keep your blisters from being irritated.

He finishes his beer before the first hour has passed with you in his vehicle. Waits another two to have a second. You don’t comment on it, but the scent makes your lip curl, and you bury your face in your arms to hide the reaction. You hope he’s not a lightweight. And despite the heavy stench of cigarette smoke sunken into the interior, he hasn’t had one yet. 

He’s the one who speaks next.

It’s a quarter until 6, and the sun has started her slow journey to sleep. You’ve been watching the sight for a while, entranced by the slow process with nothing else to amuse you.

“Pullin’ off,” he grunts.

You can’t help but jerk up straight at the sound, caught off guard. You’d nearly forgotten about his accent, about how deep his voice really is.

“For gas?” You ask, turning in your seat to glance at him for the first time in at least an hour. He only grunts again, a noise you’re just going to assume means yes. 

“Alright,” you nod, letting your feet drop to the floor from where you’d crossed them beneath yourself. “Are you… do you want me to find someone else to ride with?” You cross your fingers where you tuck them beneath your thighs, pray to every god you know of that he doesn’t make that yes grunt again.

He looks over to you this time, and the two of you make eye contact for the first time since you’d gotten into the car nearly six hours ago. His eyes are brighter than you remember, and the impact of them sends a jolt up your spine.

You’re not sure how long he looks at you. You feel stuck under his gaze, a little wide-eyed prey animal spotted by a predator who can only lay still and hope they move on. You’ve never felt quite so pinned before, quite so unable to break eye contact. You don’t think you like it.

He looks away first, shifts in his seat and drops one hand from the steering wheel to lay on his thigh. You swallow at how tight his jeans are, how his thighs seem to nearly bulge from them. 

“No,” he finally answers. It takes a moment for you to remember your own question, but your sigh of relief is loud once you do.

If you’re lucky, he’ll try and drive through the night. Dangerous, since it’ll make for nearly twenty-four hours on the road, but you’d rather take your chances with him than falling asleep at the wheel then spend another night staring into a dark forest and wondering if there are wolves in this part of the country.

He turns off the highway three exits later, pulls his truck into the first reststop. It’s the only structure in the nearby area, a McDonald’s-Subway-Shell mix with ten pumps, less than half with someone using them. It’s the kind of rest stop you’ve seen on countless roadtrips, one that you know exists off half the exits in the States. The familiarity of it makes your lips twitch up in the corners.

There are several other semi-trucks pulled up getting gas, none quite the size of your driver’s. He parks quickly and easily, in one try, and turns the truck completely off. You shift a little in your seat, unsure what he’ll want from you, but he’s hauled himself up and out of the truck before you can open your mouth to ask.

You settle a bit. He’d said he wouldn’t make you leave but you still can’t fully relax for some reason, can’t bring back the looseness to your shoulders you’ve had since he picked you up. You entertain yourself by watching a middle aged couple try and wrangle six kids that look like they’re all under ten, since I’m sympathy when the littlest one’s face goes red and he starts to wail.

The door next to you opens without warning. You manage to catch your bag before it can go tumbling out of the car, can’t hold back the little yelp of surprise. Your eyes are wide, fingers holding tight to the bag, when you look up through your hair.

The driver’s face looks the same as it has for the last six hours - expressionless. Even with the mask, surely his eyebrows should move at least a bit? He looks almost like a corpse above you - pale face and flat features. It unnerves you. 

“Gettin’ food. You got money?”

You hesitate for a moment - you do have money, small bills you’d snuck from your husband’s wallet that you’d planned to use for a bus ticket. You’re not starving yet, the few granola bars you’d taken in your escape will tide you over for a little while longer.

You shake your head.

He nods, like he’d expected that, and glances over your form from head to toe again. “Alright. You want somethin’ to eat, now’s your chance. We’ll be back on the road for another few hours before I stop for the night.”

With that he turns away, jumps down to the parking lot and stalks off toward the McDonald’s. It takes you a minute to follow him, still a little shocked that you’d gotten multiple sentences from him at once.

The thought of free food is far too tempting to let you linger for too long, though, and you’re throwing your bag over your shoulders and scampering after him only a moment later. You have to trot a little awkwardly to keep up with his long strides. He doesn’t hold the door open for you, but you catch him glancing over his shoulder to see if you’re there.

The teenager working the register looks like it’s their first day, and you assume a middle-aged man leaning against the counter beside her is meant to be showing her the ropes. He’s far more occupied with whatever’s on his phone screen, leaving the cashier to stare up at your driver with wide eyes.

You get it. Standing next to him now, you decide he’s not big - he’s huge. Has to be at least six and a half feet tall, and at least a foot taller than you. Combined with his muscular form - another odd thing for a truck driver - and his all black attire, he seems almost like some sort of monster or omen come to warn about the future.

You step up to the counter beside him, give the cashier your best reassuring smile when she glances at you. It gives her enough courage to stumble over, “Welcome to McDonald’s, what can I get you today?” after only a few stuttering starts. You’re quite proud of her.

“Five Big Macs and fries. No drink.” The man rumbles, his mask umoving. He glances down at you, finally cocks an eyebrow (an expression!) for you to order.

“Uh, just… just ten nuggets for me,” you smile at the cashier, glance up at the driver to make sure you haven’t somehow ordered too much. “And, uh, a Coke?”

“Will that be all for you today?”

“Make it a twenty nugget meal,” your partner corrects, then pulls a worn leather from his back pocket and pays with a shiny card. You can’t help but eye the many bills folded neatly in the wallet.

“Thanks for the upgrade,” you say as the two of you slide onto a pair of stools to wait for your food. “I really appreciate it. I, uh, I can’t pay you back, though.”

He glances at you again, holds you pinned under his gaze and kicks your heartbeat up a few notches. It becomes a conscious effort to keep your breathing steady when he spreads his thighs enough to brush against yours. 

“Don’t worry about it.”

Your meal is largely silent. He all but inhales three of his five burgers, leaves the other two wrapped up presumably for later on the drive. You try and eat all of your nuggets and fries, but your granola bar diet of the last few days means your stomach feels stretched to his limit only a few bites into the meal.

After your fifth nugget, you tuck the little box closed. Shift towards your driver and glance up from the window you’d been staring out to see him already looking down at you.

You clear your throat, take a little sip of your Coke. “I’m done.”

He shakes his head once, reaches forward to pop the little box back open. “No, you’re not. We’re not getting back on the road ‘til you eat at least half.”

You can’t help but blink in surprise at him, not moving to take any more food. He won’t tell you his name, won’t make any small talk whatsoever, but he will worry about how much you’re eating?

He grunts when you don’t make a move to listen to him, pushes the little brown box closer to you. “C’mon. Eat.”

You get through another five under his eye. He doesn’t look away from you, and now you know about the stare. It feels heavier now, like every little twitch from you is catalouged by him. It makes every bite difficult to swallow.

He nods when you tuck the little box closed again, glance a bit wearily at him to make sure he’s content now. He picks up your tray, tucks his two sandwiches in one hand, and leaves. You scramble to keep up.

His strides are a little shorter in the parking lot this time, and the slower pace keeps your blisters from further irritation. You’re not sure it’s intentional, but you’re thankful nonetheless.

The truck is still difficult to get into, but the worn leather seats are a familiar comfort now. This time, your driver flicks on the radio as he pulls out of the rest stop.

For some reason, you feel like maybe he likes you. There’s something in the line of his body that feels a little softer now, the tension in the truck feels a little drained. It could be the music, but you prefer to think that he’s taken a bit of a liking to you. It means he’s less likely to end up hurting you, means you're less likely to have to rely on your non-existent shooting skills.

With the sun nearly fully set and the soft music from the radio, it’s much harder to keep yourself awake. You curl up in the seat, lay your head down on folded arms, and try your best to keep your eyes open.

———————————————————————

You don’t know how long it’s been when you wake up.

The truck is silent now, no engine and no radio, and the world outside is pitch black. You jerk up at the realization, quickly lay a hand on your bag and turn to your driver.

He’s staring at you. You nearly yelp in surprise, bite your tongue so harshly to keep the noise back that you taste the tang of iron.

He looks nearly inhuman in just the low light of the truck. Pale skin, blonde hair, blue eyes, a dark black mask obscuring half of his face. His body is turned towards you, black shirt and dark pants making him look almost like the top half of his face is just… floating. 

“I need to sleep,” he rumbles, keeping you held captive in what almost feels like a staring contest - like if you look away now, you’ll lose something. “You can take the bed in the back.”

That gets your heartbeat quickening, the thud of your pulse loud in your own ears. “Oh… I thought…” you swallow, finally tear your eyes from his to look around. You seem to be at another rest stop, this one a small dark building with two bathrooms and a few vending machines. There aren’t any other trucks parked around you. “I thought I might try and find a motel or something.”

“With what money?”

He’s got you there. You work your tongue against the roof of your mouth, clear away the blood and try to make your mouth not so bone-dry. “Yeah,” you nearly whisper, eyes darting back to his before away again. He hasn’t moved. You clear your throat before speaking again. “But, uh, I don’t want to kick you out of your bed. I can sleep up here.”

“You’ll take the bed,” he reaffirms, with no room for argument in his tone. You can’t help but feel like there’s something more here, like you’re missing something. You don’t feel safe anymore, not like you had after the McDonald’s. Why did you let yourself fall asleep? You could have pressured him to pull off somewhere with a motel, tried to finagle or scam yourself into a room with a lock on the door.

Now you’re stuck in this dark truck, no one else but the driver around for miles.

You swallow again, force down a cough.

You don’t want to sleep in his bed. But a glance over at him tells you that’s what’s going to happen. Your driver doesn’t seem the kind of man to take kindly to disobedience.

“What’s your name?” You ask again, voice weak and quiet. For some reason, this feels important. Like a name will make him more human, easier to swallow.

He only tilts his head a little, face still stoic. “Get in bed. We’ll drive again when the sun rises.”

“Please,” you try, a hint of desperation creeping into your voice. You can’t explain it, but you need his name. Need some evidence that he’s more man than he looks. This moment feels pivotal, and there’s a little voice screaming at the back of your head that things are going in the wrong direction.

“Sleep, doll,” is all he says. His voice isn’t softer, but it’s quieter, like maybe he understands the fear coursing through you.

You squeeze your eyes shut a moment before pushing yourself up, both hands holding onto your bag - your literal only possible defense againt this man - like a lifeline. You know they’d shake if your grips was any looser.

It’s too dark to make out much in the back of his cabin. The bed is a decent size for you, but you wonder if he’s able to stretch out fully on it. You think you can see the outline of a minifridge and a few books resting on the floor. 

He’s still watching you as you sit on the bed, his body unmoved but his head turned towards you. You try to keep your breathing steady as you toe your shoes off, tuck your feet up to the bed with you and curl up on your side.

The bag doesn’t leave your arms. His eyes don’t leave your form. He makes no move to stretch out and sleep like he’d said he would.

You force your eyes closed, no matter how wrong it feels. You try and will yourself to sleep, tell yourself everything will be fine. If he tries anything, you’ll shoot him.

You can still feel his gaze on you when you finally slip into unconsciousness.

———————————————————————

You wake slowly to movement behind you. 

You blink heavy eyelids open, let them fall shut again when there’s no difference in what you can see.  You feel cloaked by sleep still, like your brain has been held underwater and everything moves a little slowly, a little muffled.

The bed dips behind you, and there’s a warmth behind you. A hand at your waist. The top of a foot against the sole of yours. A chest against your back.

Your eyes stay closed, but your brows furrow a bit. Your husband has always hated the idea of cuddling, slept like a corpse on his back and berated you if you dared to touch him in your sleep. You nearly roll over, but figure that might set him off. Your arms still ache from the last argument you’d had.

The hand slips beneath your shirt, rough palm against your waist, thumb smoothing in little circles.

That catches your attention, too - your husband’s hands are soft. He’s never done a day of work in his life, the only job he’s had is some fake title made up by his father at his company. The hand on your skin isn’t soft at all, it’s rough with big, thick fingers that rest heavily on you.

The realization comes to you in pieces.

Your master bedroom was never this dark, the large windows always left wide open to allow moonlight into the room. Your ex-husband’s hands are smooth, boney and nearing on frail. The foot brushing against yours triggers a burning sensation in your blisters.

You keep your breathing even - an effort that feels impossible. 

It’s not your husband at your back, it’s the truck driver.

He’s silent as he tucks himself fully to you. His breath is damp against your neck and you fight down a shudder at the sensation. 

Your bag isn’t in your arms, which means you don’t have your gun. Whatever happens, whatever he does to you, you have no way of defending yourself.

The only reason you don’t cry at the thought is because you don’t want him to know you’re awake. It’s pure self-preservation that keeps your breathing even, your limbs loose, and your breathing slow.

He brings his head closer, his breathing loud in your ear. Every part of him is pressed against you, and you can’t help squeezing your eyes shut more tightly at the hardness poking into your back.

He’s silent as he sets his chin over your shoulder. His groin is tucked right beneath your ass, his knees behind yours and his feet benath yours. He’s just… spooning you.

It feels like an eternity passes just like that. Your heartbeat pounding in every bone, the heat of the driver’s body against yours. His breath is the only noise you hear, ghosting over your ear, heavier than your own.

Eventually, he starts to move. You almost whimper when you realize what he’s doing. 

He’s humping you.

His movements are slow at first, just a little rock of his hips against you. But as the minutes pass he becomes more incensed, his thrusts harder against you, his breathing heavier. He grunts at one point, and it takes everything in you not to flinch away.

You want to scream. You want to open your mouth and shout, to roll over and make him stop.

But you don’t have your gun. And he dwarfs you, every inch of your back covered by him and then some. You can’t stop him.

So you let it happen. You keep your eyes screwed shut, try desperately to go anywhere else in your head and pretend you don’t feel how quickly his hips begin to rock.

His hand moves from your hip to your stomach, his pinky resting on the waistband of your sleep shorts. You don’t think you could stay quiet any longer if his fingers slipped beneath the hem, and you let out a near silent breath of relief when his palm continues up instead of down.

He almost rolls you onto your stomach, angles you so your front is closer to the mattress and he can grind more on you than beside you. His hand slips further up your shirt, and you bite your tongue at the feeling of his rough palm against your nipples.

That gets another huff from him, another low sound that could almost be a moan. You feel him shift again, his hips working a little more roughly. You’re not sure how he possibly thinks you’re still asleep, but you pray he doesn’t take it any further as long as he does.

He doesn’t pinch, just softly strokes over one breast. His hand engulfs it fully, fingers wrapping all the way around the little mound of flesh. The calluses on his palm send little sparks down your spine, and you curse your body for the buzzing sensation between your thighs.

His breath gets heavier in your ear, he’s nearly panting over you. If you weren’t wearing shorts and he wasn’t wearing jeans, he’d be fucking you. His thrusting almost feels like he is. The… thing grinding against you is clearly large, even through all the layers of clothing, and you say another prayer that he doesn’t do more than this.

“Fuck,” he grunts, his chin pushing hard into your shoulder. You almost jerk at the sound of his voice, the evidence that this is real and not some horrible nightmare. 

You wish you could fall back asleep.

You don’t know how long the whole thing lasts. The pitch dark, the driver’s oppressive weight against you, it makes time feel liminal. You’re not sure if he lasts for five minutes or five hours.

But eventually his hips slow, give a few harder thrusts before he goes completely still and lets out a loud groan. Again, you wonder how he expects you to have slept through the noise. 

He shifts back a little in the aftermath, rolling you back to your side with a heavy hand on your stomach. You try to keep yourself as limp as possible, try to make your face go slack.

He lays with you for a while, breathing even and slow. You wish he would leave, wish he would let you start pretending this never happened. His hand stays on your stomach, and you can feel the other crossed over his midsection at your back. His feet hold your ankles to the bed. You hope he can’t feel that you’re squeezing your hands into tight fists where they rest against your thighs.

He doesn’t leave. Instead, he shifts his own thick thigh between your own, the rough denim of his jeans irritating the sensitive skin of your inner thighs. He tucks his leg up, settles it right against your core.

You can’t help the way your breath hitches at the sudden pressure. You hold it immediately after, then try to breathe normally again when you realize how obvious the sudden change sounds. He doesn’t react, though, so you think you’re safe. 

The pressure increases a bit more before stopping. You’re almost propped up on his thigh, your pussy pressed against him through your shorts. It’s hard not to open your eyes, to look down and see what’s happening.

His hand slips down from your stomach to the waistband of your shorts. You can’t keep yourself from moving this time, already knowing what he’s going to do. You shift your hips a little, make a tiny noise in your throat that you hope comes off as a normal still-asleep sound. The movement only presses you closer to him.

He hums lowly in your ear, fingers stroking across the waistband of your shorts before dipping inside, then past your little gray panties. You can’t help the little squeak you make, the way your hands twitch before you force them still.

The sound he makes is almost a laugh, too low and quiet to really be one though. He hushes you softly, pushes on the meat of your most vulnerable part to still you. 

You don’t know if he thinks you’re awake. You think he must, there’s no way you could have slept through what he’d just done, and you’ve moved twice now. But he doesn’t speak to you, doesn’t become more aggressive.

You debate putting up a fight when his fingers sink lower, his palm resting heavily over your cunt. But the thought of him becoming rough, of him restraining you… it makes bile churn in your stomach.

You resign yourself to waiting until it’s over, go limp against the bed again.

Another hum, and his free hand moves beneath your body to grasp your hip. He moves you slowly, little grinding motions over his thigh. The hand over your heat uses two fingers to spread the lips of your cunt, tucks the gusset of your underwear and the fabric of your shorts to the side so your clit makes direct contact with his jeans.

You keen quietly at the sensation, a little animal noise of fear, of pain. You wish you had your gun, wish you could make this man stop.

But you can’t. So you bear it.

He doesn’t touch your clit with his fingers, doesn’t touch any part of your pussy but to spread you wide. His thigh moves along yours, his hand grinding you against it. You hate the slickness gathering at your hole, hate the way your nipples tighten, the way your breaths become heavier.

You bite your tongue to hold back any other sounds, that tang of blood returning after only a few seconds.

“C’mon,” he says into your neck, his voice a low whisper. “Come f’r me, doll... be good.”

You don’t want to be good, can’t suppress the little whine you make at even the thought. He rumbles low in his chest in response, pushes against you a little harder.

You can’t stay quiet through your orgasm. It’s a slow thing, rolling and deep. You feel it in your toes, in your scalp, and in every vein between. Had you been willing, been with a partner of your choice, you may have thrown your head back and cried out. But here in the truck, with this man you can’t believe you were stupid enough to trust, you squeeze your eyes so tightly shut that tears eek out the corners and bite your cheek until there’s a sore. And still, a moan vibrates in your chest.

He stops grinding you against him when your orgasm is finished. His finges slip from you slowly, tuck your panties back over your mound and give you two little pats before he fully pulls his hand away. 

Both of his hands slip back up your stomach, grab a handful of your chest and massage you there for several moments. Your breathing gradually slows as your body comes down, your limbs going limp again despite the fact that his hands are still on you.

He rolls you to your back when he’s finished. You feel his lips press against each of your eyelids, squeezed shut no matter how hard you try to force your face to relax. Another tear slips down the side of your nose, and he kisses it away before it can reach your lips. You feel his tongue stroke beneath each eye, know that he’s cleaning away your tears. He gives you a final, chaste kiss on your lips before pulling away.

He’s gone a moment later, and you’re left cold and alone in his bed.

———————————————————————

He smokes a cigarette while he watches you sleep. Your nose twitches at the first hint of smoke, and he almost smirks at the expression.

He can’t believe he found you. A perfect little doll of a girl, limping all filthy and sad along the side of a highway, just waiting for someone to scoop you up. God truly does have a sick sense of humor, gifting a bastard like Ghost a gift like you.

He hadn’t planned to keep you at first. He figured he’d ride with you for a while, fuck you a few times to have a warm place to dump his cum before dropping you off at a rest stop for another driver to scoop up. But no, that won’t do now that he’s felt your cunt against his hand, watched you try desperately to hold back every expression because you thought it might keep you safe.

He’ll have to find out where the finger-shaped bruises on your arms are from. After this trip, he’ll find whoever left them and take care of them. He’ll be the only one hurting his little doll, no one else. Might even win him a few brownie points with you, if he’s lucky.

Your feet probably need bandaging, too. He’d seen the redness at the back of your ankles when you tucked your feet up on his seats, felt the blisters against his own feet when he laid with you. He’ll make sure you stay off your feet for a bit, give them time to heal.

That gets another smirk. You won’t be leaving the truck for a long time, there’ll be no need to worry about your blisters after tonight. He’ll keep you off your feet. Maybe have you thank him for taking such good care of you.

He’ll try your mouth next. He bites back a moan imagining your face pressed against his crotch, knows already that the difference in size between the two of you will be absolutely pornographic at that angle. Can’t wait to teach you to deepthroat him, salivating at the image of you holding him in your mouth on the road.

He’d already wasted one load, it’s only right you take the next. You’re his now, which means he shouldn’t have to come in his fucking pants like a teenager ever again. 

But he’d gone easy on you, hadn’t made you take him in any of your holes this first night. Even let you pretend to sleep through the whole thing, though your shifting hips and little scrunched up face gave you away as soon as he pressed himself against you.

It was endearing, really, the way you tried so hard to pretend it wasn’t happening. He can still taste your tears on his tongue, mixing with the acrid taste of nicotine. He can’t wait to learn what your pussy tastes like.

He takes a long pull from the cigarette and considers your little shaking form.

You won’t need much now that you’re with him. Only a few outfits in case he needs to bring you in somewhere, but you’ll be kept naked when in his truck. He’ll have to find a motel sometime soon, get all the grime washed off your skin and the grease out of your hair. He’d like to see it brushed out, see how you might style it for him.

He’ll take good care of you. Feed you when you’re hungry, maybe get some little toys or books if you’re good, fuck you whenever you - or he - needs it. 

It’ll take a while for you to settle, he knows. You’ll spend a bit looking for that girly little gun you’d been keeping tucked away in your bag. But that’s okay. He already knows he’ll enjoy training you, showing you just how to be the perfect little doll for him.

He stubs the cigarette out in an ashtray, climbs back into bed with you and tucks you tight to his chest. Your little sniffling breaths draw another little twitch of the lips from him, and he buries his nose in your hair before shutting his eyes.

Yeah, you're going to be perfect for him.

[angelsworks]

🖤💙🩵Thank you! 🩵💙🖤

A Scarab Knows Jaime Reyes (Blue Beetle) x reader

Summary: Times when the scarab on your boyfriends back caught you in a lie.

Warnings: Smut, angst, insecure!reader, talks of period, 18+

Moodboard credit goes to @your-yandere-kiss They’ve got so many other great moodboards. I’d definitely recommend you check them out if you like that sort of thing.

DC Masterlist

It took a while to get used to the scarab. Khaji Da was not what you were expecting Jaime to reveal after a couple of months of dating. Your boyfriend was so nervous as he explained the ancient alien that held the power of the blue beetle that had bonded to his back. At first you had no response. Then you wanted to see it to which Jaime happily obliged.

Your eyes found the shiny blue shell of the beetle in line with Jamie’s shoulder blades. Call it morbid curiosity that lead you to reaching out and gently tracing part of the scarab. When red eyes opened and glowed along the scarabs elytra in response you jumped back in surprise. The action causing Jaime to jump up and away from you.

He didn’t say anything, instead staring almost blankly at something behind you. An action you’d found him doing throughout your relationship. Only now did you realise it was because of Khaji Da.

Finally he spoke, “I think it likes you.”

From then on things got better with Jamie. There were no secrets between the two of you anymore and you could continue your relationship in peace. Well almost in peace. The scarab on his back was to blame for that.

It wasn’t that you didn’t like Khaji Da, it’s just that it was almost like another person you had to share your boyfriend with. A person that was with him all the time. A person that he has secret talks with. A person that he fought crime with.

You weren’t jealous. Jaime was yours and Khaji Da had no interest in him like that. It was just hard getting used to being in a relationship with Jaime and now Khaji Da. After telling you about his scarab Jaime could talk to it more openly, without you thinking he was strange. Sometimes you’d be with Jaime watching a movie and he’d answer a question you hadn’t asked. Or other times you’d be looking for something you’d lost and he’d blurt out it’s location, claiming Khaji Da had told him.

Khaji Da wasn’t all bad, in fact it treated you kindly and as a valued person to Jaime. Over time it too became protective like Jaime towards you. A gesture you found sweet. Well mostly sweet.

One evening you saw the positives to the scarab on your boyfriends back.

The day you’d had was one for the history books. Anything that could go wrong, did go wrong. This morning you overslept for class meaning you had to rush out the door. In class you realised you left your paper you’d been working on at your home. After class you went to your job at a local restaurant. A job that on a good day would wear you down and drain your social skills. But on a bad day? It was unimaginable. To add to it you started your period mid shift, unprepared of course.

Finally at the end of the day you remembered the plans you had to stay over at your boyfriends apartment. Despite feeling anything but happy, you plastered a smile on your face and pushed your tears back as you greeted him. You hugged him tightly and kept up your facade. Engaging in small talk about your day and your class. Purposely leaving out or brushing over the majority of bad bits.

Jaime was buying the facade of course and you couldn’t blame him. The two of you hadn’t been dating for long and he hadn’t learnt you yet. However Khaji Da had, or to some extent it had.

A quick body scan had revealed your true feelings. Your low mood, recently working tear ducts and uterus walls cramping. All of which was relayed to Jaime whose face quickly took to looking crestfallen.

“Mi Vida, why would you lie to me?” Jaime asks softly. Pulling you from beside him on the couch to his lap.

You look at him startled. Unable to form words or even think of a coherent answer. But he waits for one. Even though it takes a few beats of silence.

“What - how do you know?” You ask him perplexed.

His tongue swipes out over his lips, “Khaji Da scans almost everyone I meet. It makes a habit of scanning you especially.”

You nod slowly, letting the new information sink in. You wonder just how much Khaji Da knows about you. You wonder how much information it passed on to Jaime each time you met. Was this the first time it caught you out in a lie, or just the first time Jaime chose to bring it up.

“I didn’t want to burden you with my bad day Jaime. You seemed so happy. I just wanted to enjoy being with you today.”

Jaime sighed and held you impossibly closer. Rubbing your back as you let out a few tears.

“Nothing you tell me would burden me. I love you so much Cielo.” Jaime whispers in your ear.

“Cielo?” You ask, unsure of the endearment.

“It means sky or heaven. That’s what you are to me. Nothing my Cielo tells me burdens me. You are my world, Mi Vida.”

Although Khaji Da’s interference worked out this time, it didn’t always. One time in particular didn’t end well with Jaime.

It was just past nine when your eyes glanced over to the clock on the bedside lamp. Jaime had been pounding into you for what felt like hours. He’d been out all evening doing something for Kord industries. The topic a sore one as you knew of the previous feelings he felt for Jenny.

You tried to put your feelings aside and remember that Jaime was with you now, not her. Your efforts hadn’t been good enough as Khaji Da and Jaime had seen right through it. Leaving him no choice but to show you just how much he loved you.

Yet the hurried passion between you hadn’t given you the stimulation you needed to reach your climax even once. There was little foreplay and things unraveled and quickly lead to him being deep inside you.

At one point you’d moved your fingers to your clit, trying to gain something to take you over the edge. Jaime, thinking you were acting up as you often did with him (in dynamic of course) removed your hand and pinned it with your other above your head. He gave you a gentle kiss and whispered some dirty words in your ear.

“Are you close?” He panted, still hammering into you. You thought about saying no, then wondered what he would think. You started to feel insecure in the fact that your orgasm was taking so long. So you decided to pretend.

It wasn’t something you’d ever had to do before but once wouldn’t hurt, would it?

You moaned out a reply and started your act. Rolling your eyes back into your skull, praising your partner for his work, clenching your walls on his cock. It wasn’t long before he followed you. Stilling inside you before reaching his own.

After pulling out slowly and kissing your temple he rolled over, having a moment before getting a wash cloth for you.

Silence hung in the air. Comfortable silence of course, but silence non the less. Jamie’s hand found yours, holding it gently as he often did.

Some time passed before his grip changed and became tighter. He turned on his side and looked at you accusingly.

“You faked it?” He asked, a little hurt but mostly angry.

Your eyes widened and you could feel your face heating up. “Jaime it’s not like that, you know I wouldn’t - ”

“But you did, or else Khaji Da wouldn’t have brought it up.”

You let out a huff, “Why does it matter. I’m sure it happens to plenty of couples all the time. I’m fine. Your fine. Let’s just go to bed.”

You move to roll over only to be pulled back by an angry Jaime. You’d never seen him this annoyed before about something you’d done. Usually you couldn’t put a foot wrong with him. He thought everything about you was great. It would be a lie to say his anger didn’t make you guilty about being dishonest.

“It matters because your my girlfriend. We aren’t just another couple. And while I’ve got working fingers, a working tongue and a working cock I have no excuse not to make you cum.” He tells you in earnest, putting his anger aside for a minute.

Although the sentiment is there, his wording isn’t. Jamie’s right, everything about him works. There’s no reason he shouldn’t be able to make you cum. It’s you that’s the problem and that same insecurity creeps back in once more. Making you doubt if there was something wrong with you. Making you remember why you lied in the first place. You didn’t want him to think less of you.

“So why Mi Vida, why lie to me? You know I love you.”

You huff again but this time it’s more pitiful as you feel your throat tightening. “It’s not you Jaime, it was me. It just wasn’t happening. I don’t know if I needed more foreplay or something. Maybe it’s just me, maybe there’s something wrong. Please let’s just go to sleep.” You practically beg. The warmth in your face ever increasing from the embarrassment you now feel.

As he understands your words he feels his anger dissipate. “There is nothing wrong with you Cielo, I should have done more before you know, going inside you. It was rushed. But you need to know that there is nothing to be embarrassed about. I love making you cum.”

You smile, leaning over to kiss Jaime. Who responded eagerly almost trying to make up for lost time. Showing you that there was nothing wrong with you at all.

“Let me show you how much I love doing it Mi Vida.”

You could only nod as your boyfriend spent the rest of the night doing everything he could to make you cum.

By the time he’d done you’d finished a record number of times and had forgotten any ill will you’d felt towards Khaji Da. It turned out to be quite useful.

[angelsworks]

A Scarab Knows Jaime Reyes (Blue Beetle) x reader

Summary: Times when the scarab on your boyfriends back caught you in a lie.

Warnings: Smut, angst, insecure!reader, talks of period, 18+

Moodboard credit goes to @your-yandere-kiss They’ve got so many other great moodboards. I’d definitely recommend you check them out if you like that sort of thing.

DC Masterlist

It took a while to get used to the scarab. Khaji Da was not what you were expecting Jaime to reveal after a couple of months of dating. Your boyfriend was so nervous as he explained the ancient alien that held the power of the blue beetle that had bonded to his back. At first you had no response. Then you wanted to see it to which Jaime happily obliged.

Your eyes found the shiny blue shell of the beetle in line with Jamie’s shoulder blades. Call it morbid curiosity that lead you to reaching out and gently tracing part of the scarab. When red eyes opened and glowed along the scarabs elytra in response you jumped back in surprise. The action causing Jaime to jump up and away from you.

He didn’t say anything, instead staring almost blankly at something behind you. An action you’d found him doing throughout your relationship. Only now did you realise it was because of Khaji Da.

Finally he spoke, “I think it likes you.”

From then on things got better with Jamie. There were no secrets between the two of you anymore and you could continue your relationship in peace. Well almost in peace. The scarab on his back was to blame for that.

It wasn’t that you didn’t like Khaji Da, it’s just that it was almost like another person you had to share your boyfriend with. A person that was with him all the time. A person that he has secret talks with. A person that he fought crime with.

You weren’t jealous. Jaime was yours and Khaji Da had no interest in him like that. It was just hard getting used to being in a relationship with Jaime and now Khaji Da. After telling you about his scarab Jaime could talk to it more openly, without you thinking he was strange. Sometimes you’d be with Jaime watching a movie and he’d answer a question you hadn’t asked. Or other times you’d be looking for something you’d lost and he’d blurt out it’s location, claiming Khaji Da had told him.

Khaji Da wasn’t all bad, in fact it treated you kindly and as a valued person to Jaime. Over time it too became protective like Jaime towards you. A gesture you found sweet. Well mostly sweet.

One evening you saw the positives to the scarab on your boyfriends back.

The day you’d had was one for the history books. Anything that could go wrong, did go wrong. This morning you overslept for class meaning you had to rush out the door. In class you realised you left your paper you’d been working on at your home. After class you went to your job at a local restaurant. A job that on a good day would wear you down and drain your social skills. But on a bad day? It was unimaginable. To add to it you started your period mid shift, unprepared of course.

Finally at the end of the day you remembered the plans you had to stay over at your boyfriends apartment. Despite feeling anything but happy, you plastered a smile on your face and pushed your tears back as you greeted him. You hugged him tightly and kept up your facade. Engaging in small talk about your day and your class. Purposely leaving out or brushing over the majority of bad bits.

Jaime was buying the facade of course and you couldn’t blame him. The two of you hadn’t been dating for long and he hadn’t learnt you yet. However Khaji Da had, or to some extent it had.

A quick body scan had revealed your true feelings. Your low mood, recently working tear ducts and uterus walls cramping. All of which was relayed to Jaime whose face quickly took to looking crestfallen.

“Mi Vida, why would you lie to me?” Jaime asks softly. Pulling you from beside him on the couch to his lap.

You look at him startled. Unable to form words or even think of a coherent answer. But he waits for one. Even though it takes a few beats of silence.

“What - how do you know?” You ask him perplexed.

His tongue swipes out over his lips, “Khaji Da scans almost everyone I meet. It makes a habit of scanning you especially.”

You nod slowly, letting the new information sink in. You wonder just how much Khaji Da knows about you. You wonder how much information it passed on to Jaime each time you met. Was this the first time it caught you out in a lie, or just the first time Jaime chose to bring it up.

“I didn’t want to burden you with my bad day Jaime. You seemed so happy. I just wanted to enjoy being with you today.”

Jaime sighed and held you impossibly closer. Rubbing your back as you let out a few tears.

“Nothing you tell me would burden me. I love you so much Cielo.” Jaime whispers in your ear.

“Cielo?” You ask, unsure of the endearment.

“It means sky or heaven. That’s what you are to me. Nothing my Cielo tells me burdens me. You are my world, Mi Vida.”

Although Khaji Da’s interference worked out this time, it didn’t always. One time in particular didn’t end well with Jaime.

It was just past nine when your eyes glanced over to the clock on the bedside lamp. Jaime had been pounding into you for what felt like hours. He’d been out all evening doing something for Kord industries. The topic a sore one as you knew of the previous feelings he felt for Jenny.

You tried to put your feelings aside and remember that Jaime was with you now, not her. Your efforts hadn’t been good enough as Khaji Da and Jaime had seen right through it. Leaving him no choice but to show you just how much he loved you.

Yet the hurried passion between you hadn’t given you the stimulation you needed to reach your climax even once. There was little foreplay and things unraveled and quickly lead to him being deep inside you.

At one point you’d moved your fingers to your clit, trying to gain something to take you over the edge. Jaime, thinking you were acting up as you often did with him (in dynamic of course) removed your hand and pinned it with your other above your head. He gave you a gentle kiss and whispered some dirty words in your ear.

“Are you close?” He panted, still hammering into you. You thought about saying no, then wondered what he would think. You started to feel insecure in the fact that your orgasm was taking so long. So you decided to pretend.

It wasn’t something you’d ever had to do before but once wouldn’t hurt, would it?

You moaned out a reply and started your act. Rolling your eyes back into your skull, praising your partner for his work, clenching your walls on his cock. It wasn’t long before he followed you. Stilling inside you before reaching his own.

After pulling out slowly and kissing your temple he rolled over, having a moment before getting a wash cloth for you.

Silence hung in the air. Comfortable silence of course, but silence non the less. Jamie’s hand found yours, holding it gently as he often did.

Some time passed before his grip changed and became tighter. He turned on his side and looked at you accusingly.

“You faked it?” He asked, a little hurt but mostly angry.

Your eyes widened and you could feel your face heating up. “Jaime it’s not like that, you know I wouldn’t - ”

“But you did, or else Khaji Da wouldn’t have brought it up.”

You let out a huff, “Why does it matter. I’m sure it happens to plenty of couples all the time. I’m fine. Your fine. Let’s just go to bed.”

You move to roll over only to be pulled back by an angry Jaime. You’d never seen him this annoyed before about something you’d done. Usually you couldn’t put a foot wrong with him. He thought everything about you was great. It would be a lie to say his anger didn’t make you guilty about being dishonest.

“It matters because your my girlfriend. We aren’t just another couple. And while I’ve got working fingers, a working tongue and a working cock I have no excuse not to make you cum.” He tells you in earnest, putting his anger aside for a minute.

Although the sentiment is there, his wording isn’t. Jamie’s right, everything about him works. There’s no reason he shouldn’t be able to make you cum. It’s you that’s the problem and that same insecurity creeps back in once more. Making you doubt if there was something wrong with you. Making you remember why you lied in the first place. You didn’t want him to think less of you.

“So why Mi Vida, why lie to me? You know I love you.”

You huff again but this time it’s more pitiful as you feel your throat tightening. “It’s not you Jaime, it was me. It just wasn’t happening. I don’t know if I needed more foreplay or something. Maybe it’s just me, maybe there’s something wrong. Please let’s just go to sleep.” You practically beg. The warmth in your face ever increasing from the embarrassment you now feel.

As he understands your words he feels his anger dissipate. “There is nothing wrong with you Cielo, I should have done more before you know, going inside you. It was rushed. But you need to know that there is nothing to be embarrassed about. I love making you cum.”

You smile, leaning over to kiss Jaime. Who responded eagerly almost trying to make up for lost time. Showing you that there was nothing wrong with you at all.

“Let me show you how much I love doing it Mi Vida.”

You could only nod as your boyfriend spent the rest of the night doing everything he could to make you cum.

By the time he’d done you’d finished a record number of times and had forgotten any ill will you’d felt towards Khaji Da. It turned out to be quite useful.

[angelsworks]

Blue Beetle Masterlist

Key: Smut - S Angst - A Fluff - F

A scarab Knows A S

[angelsworks]

DC Masterlist

Fandoms

Blue Beetle

[angelsworks]

Do you write for other characters in The Last Kingdom? Like Alfred, Erik, Sigtryggr or Rognvaldr?

Erik and Sigtryggr. The others I do not.