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quarterlifekitty · 21 hours ago

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Cop!Price x Reader

cw: noncon, abuse of power, hinting at forced impreg, john price is a bad man :)

John has been working as a highway patrol for a long time, how else is he supposed to keep himself entertained?

John had always been the kind of man to like what he liked, and offered no apologies for it

- and John liked the sweet ones.

The achingly dulcet, the ones that give him toothaches - looking at him with trust just because of the trim uniform and the shining metal on his chest.

They make his jaw tingle. Always had. Maybe that’s why he got into the job. Maybe not. John never looks too closely at the inner machinations of his actions, of him. Too reedy in there, too jumbled, too dark. Here there be monsters. In his youth, he liked the adrenaline of the chase. Some fool flying down the midnight concrete would think themselves an action-movie protagonist. Think themselves above the law. He liked to be the one to remind them of just how far under it they really were. Under his thumb.

Now, settled into his ripe age, John likes the peace of a moonlight patrol. He doesn’t mind taking the sleepy graveyard shifts that the others are too young and restless for. The shifts are calm and silent, just him and the night-bugs and the occasional car passing by. His skill and years of experience give him the leeway to do what he wants, and sometimes, what he wants is enough of a surprise to keep him excited.

Like tonight.

It’s a quiet night on the highway - he hadn’t seen another vehicle on his road until your old sedan rolled by - and you’re already a mess by the time he approaches your window. Splotched and flushed in the harsh flashlight glow, sniffling and trying to hide it. You’re a pretty thing. A bird caged in your front seat. Hands on the wheel and all your paperwork and identification already resting delicately in your lap. A proper thing, too, neat and ready for him.

Your smile is watery, dancing in the red and blue lights, when you flash it at him. “Good evening, officer.”

John tilts his head. Makes a big show of checking the timepiece on his wrist. “Almost morning, miss.”

He’s not sure, yet, why you’re crying, but something in him stirs when he notices the tears you hold on the rim of your lashline. Some birds just cry when they’re caught; the good ones who can’t stand the thought of being in trouble. Some birds are hiding something.

“Know why I pulled you over?” he asks. You shake your head, mouth already pulling into a delicate pout. “Taillight’s out.”

It’s not a direct lie. Your taillight is out. But John has let so many broken taillights go in his years, he’s sure he’s forgotten more than he remembers. He just saw a flash of your hair whipping in the wind, the tempting curve of your neck through the rear windshield, and John wanted to see more.

The apology is already bubbling out of you. “I’m sorry. I - I didn’t even realize! That’s entirely my fault -“

“Liscence and registration, miss?”

Your face falls, more tears spilling over your cheeks, but you dutifully hand over your papers and identification.

“Sit tight,” John says, and returns to his squad car.

He doesn’t run your information, though. He hadn’t even radioed into the station when he pulled you over in the first place. In the quiet, dark well of his driver's seat, he tells himself he doesn’t know why.

Something bad is stirring in his gut. He knows it is bad the way his heart rate quickens and the place his thoughts are dangerously hurtling toward. But it’s like the first sip of alcohol, his toes resting over a cliff. He wants to tip the bottle back, tip over the edge, and see where he falls. He may tell himself he doesn’t know exactly why, but he knows what he will do.

That’s one thing John never understood about others:

everyone always knew what they were going to do - they just pretended they didn’t.

John gets out of his squad car.

“Your registration is invalid,” John says when he returns to your window. With the way your eyes widen, it might be and it might not. He doesn’t know. He didn’t check.

“That - that can’t be right,” you plead. “I just renewed it! There has to be a mistake-“

“I’m not arguing about this, miss.” John cuts you short just to see your face fall. “Do you know what happens now?”

You tell him that you do not, and John asks you to step out of the vehicle.

See, when a vehicle does not have a valid registration, it cannot be driven on the road. If it’s out on the streets, that means it has to be towed. The driver of the vehicle is given the opportunity to take all their possessions from the vehicle and can be picked up after being given a citation. You don’t know this, of course. John’s sure you’ve never been detained and towed in your life. You don’t even ask about your stuff that’s left in your car, you only sniffle and dutifully get into the passenger side of his squad and tuck your hands beneath your thighs.

You also shouldn’t be sitting there without cuffs, and the thought is tempting, but John doesn’t want to scare you. He’s being very nice, offering you a ride into town instead of making you wait. (And you would be waiting a long time. A tow truck is not coming.)

John’s worked this highway for a long time. He knows the exits that take him to the quiet, unlit back roads that see maybe one farming truck a day. Slowly, so as not to spook you, John turns onto one of these roads and rumbles down it for a while. As the car crawls through the gravel, he makes conversation. Where you’re from, where you’re going, how life has been treating you. You even make him laugh a few times. You’re clever, honestly. Clever is good. John doesn’t like to explain things. You tell him how you’ve been a little down on your luck recently. Money troubles. You landed a great gig and all you had to do was get to the city on the other side of the state border and you would be set. John keeps you talking as he rumbles to a stop at a dead end: a red metal bar blocking off the closed road ahead. Only when you stop mid sentence, eyes scanning your surroundings and being left wanting, does John speak.

“When do you have to be at your new job?” he asks, putting the vehicle into park.

“Tomorrow,” you say. Tense and shifting, now. “Well … today, I guess.”

John clicks his tongue. “Impound lot’s not open on weekends. You’ll have to wait ‘till Monday."

You place your head in your hands, elbows resting on your knees.

“It’s okay, you just call your boss and explain-“

“I can’t!”

“And just pay the tow and storage fees and be on your way.”

Your voice is muffled between your fingers. “I get paid when I get to the city. I - I doubt I’ll have enough before that.”

John reaches over and rubs a hand down your back. “If you can’t pay on Monday, the storage fees will just keep adding up.”

You sit back upright, furiously swiping along your cheeks to get the tears away, and John brings his hand back to himself. It’s so still on the back road, almost tranquil. The only light is from the stars in the dark, milky sky. The only sound the crickets in the bushes. John doubts there’s another soul around for miles.

“They’ll auction your car off if you don’t pick it up. To cover the costs. Won’t have a car but won’t be in debt either,” John says. He has to show you, now - how this could go. “Now, I don’t want that for you, honey. Maybe we can come to some sort of solution.”

You swallow hard, lips twisting into a frown. “Solution,” you parrot. “Like what?”

John’s hips shift in his seat, and he places one arm on the rest behind your head. “You tell me, honey.”

He sees the understanding flood across your eyes and wants to sip it out like the brine from an oyster. It’s not a soft dawning; realization lands like an old hammer. He just wants to see, he tells himself, just wants to see what you will do. He doesn’t grab you, doesn’t even move, just dangles the line and waits for you to hook yourself.

(This is also what he tells himself: you are not forced with brutal hands -

even though he could, even though the delicate swoop of your wrists would slot so perfectly in his palm, even though the strain of your muscles, bare of your teeth, would make his jaw ache

- and so it is your decision.)

John, pulse thundering, doesn’t break your stare as he unbuckles his belt with one hand.

“What are you doing?” you whisper.

“Nothing, just getting comfortable.” An invitation, that’s all it is. No deal was struck. He’s just moving - pulling himself hard and aching from his briefs into the humid, recycled air of the cab.

It’s ugly, going from then to this. It sucks the air from the damp car, replacing it with a heady mix of strangeness and shock, even to himself. But there’s desire there, too. Heat and thrill in every exhalation of your commingling breaths. John wonders what you’ll do without instruction. Nails done up all pretty and elegant, he wonders if you’ll pretend like you’ve never done this before. Held a cock in your hands, mean and red, as some young buck grunted out his messy release.

Wonders if you hate him as you lean forward across the center console and tuck your legs underneath you on the seat.

He wonders, also, what it says about him - all the other sweet things that batted their eyes and pushed out their lips at him, hunting for leniency at the cost of anything, officer, I can’t afford a ticket. What it means that those are the ones he lets go or cuffs. John doesn’t like to hurt the pretty ones that trust him, he just likes to watch the nerves bleed into their edges. Fear and desire are so closely linked, he knows. The rise in heartbeat, the rush of blood and adrenaline. Somewhere, at some time, his wires got crossed, and now he goes around crossing others.

Your hands are warm and soft wrapped around his throbbing cock, but amateur. Nonetheless, the touch goes straight to his head, fogging up his mind in a way that makes him feel dangerous, untethered. You’re cowed over the seats like a weeping tree and a blush is clawing up your neck and onto your face. Rosy as anything with your ass in the air, one elbow supporting yourself as the other hand works. John pets your hair from your eyes that you hide beneath your lashes. He wonders if you thought of this when his lights flashed behind you. “Feels good, love. Your mouth might feel better.”

He laughs when your jaw drops open. “Acting like you’ve never done it?” he asks.

You want to say something - John can see it simmering just beneath the surface. To stop this, perhaps. To call him a sick old man and present your wrists for the cold metal cuffs. But something stays you. You swallow it down dry after a moments hesitation and start rearranging your limbs in the passenger seat.

It’s more maneuvering to get you close enough. Your spine arches over the gear-shift, a perfect picture in the dim moonlight. Your breath is hot and puffing over him, but it’s no comparison to the wet slide of your tongue when you crane your neck forward. John groans and throws his crown against the headrest, but quickly looks back down at you. He doesn’t want to miss a second. He wishes he could lean his seat back for a better view, but the cage in the backseat only allows so much movement.

You start slow, silent and dutiful and sending spikes of pleasure up his spine when you run your tongue up the underside of him. Kitten licks and kisses, teases of your soft lips on the head of his cock. No acting now. You keep your mouth on him like it’s your honeymoon, and the facsimile of intimacy sets his neurons ablaze.

John mutters something about helping and cards his fingers through your hair, moving your mouth to rest above him until it pops open. Then he feeds himself in, in, sliding past your teeth and letting you adjust before pushing to the back of your throat. You gag prettily, and John pets you and coos until you’ve calmed. All heat and softness and fuck, if he were a worse man he wouldn’t wait. He’d let you learn the hard way, trial by fire, how he liked it. But you’re being very sweet, swallowing around him with your hand on his thigh, and he’s not a bad man. Not really.

You start moving when you’re ready, bobbing up and down with your delicate fist in tandem. Hollowed cheeks and suction, humming resonating up from your chest in a way that makes his hips twitch. You’re good at this, surprising bird. Maybe you think if you do this well enough, it will be all. Maybe it will.

But then your dress slips up the curve of your hips, and he sees the tempting curve of flesh just hidden from his view, and he knows it won’t.

Besides, how could he leave you without returning the favour?

John lets you continue for a while longer - just until the tip of his fingers go a little numb and tingly - before pulling you off of him. He twists you so you’re looking at him. Swollen lips, spit running down your chin, your mouth still open and waiting. You’re obscene.

“Good job,” he says, a thinly veiled growl. “That was the hard part, honey. Promise.”

You’re frowning when you sit up, wiping the corners of your mouth on the back of your hand. John pulls the lever on the underside of his dirty seat and clicks it back a couple notches, just enough to keep it uncomfortable, and pats his wide thigh. Another suggestion. He’s sure your bare knees dig painfully into the buckle and center console when you clamber on top of him. But you’re seated so sweetly in his lap, little dress hiked up to the top of your thighs, that he doesn’t much mind. Your hands flutter uselessly in between his chest and yours, and John figures you might need more help than he realized. He places your hands on his shoulders, and you have to lean forward in the cramped space. “Gonna give me a kiss?”

It’s funny how you rankle at that. Brows knitted, a hitch in your breath. His cock against your lips is fine, but his mouth? Too personal. For this next part, though, he needs you pliant, sugared, and John’s old, lived-in. He knows how to make a woman soft and lissom. Happy to be there.

He chases your mouth when you try and leave him with a chaste peck, and you let out an indignant sound when you can’t escape. Just a taste, he thinks, just to know. Honeyed pleasure, victory, rolls up his spine when your muscles unstiffen. Taste after taste after taste. Mint toothpaste, cherries, cinnamon. You melt into him, breath coming heavy against his mouth, when he swipes his tongue across your lower lip. Only an ask. John knows how women like to be kissed - slow, dizzying, so all they can think about is the press of his tongue against their teeth - and you’re no exception. By the time he pulls away, your eyes are glossy and dumb, and he wonders if you hate yourself. Maybe you do, because you allow him to run his hands along your body, dip his fingers into the cup of your bra and pinch and squeeze until you squeak. Kneed the soft flesh of your exposed thighs until you’re panting and writhing - too proud, too ashamed, to say the words but asking with every cant of your hips.

Maybe it’s the conquering of it that draws him in. John doesn’t want meals offered on platters, John wants to work for his dinner. Turn repulse into want. Never into now, please. At the first brush of his knuckles against the soft cotton of your panties, you jerk backward, spine knocking into the wheel behind you.

“Don’t hit that horn, sweetheart,” John coos. He doesn’t stop his exploration, just keeps dragging his fingers up and down the wet patch growing underneath them. “Unless you want someone to come up on us?”

It’s a cruel thing to say. There’s no one around to hear the sound. You squeeze your eyes shut, face screwed into something bordering on desperation, and shake your head.

“No?” John asks. You shake your head again, but he’s not paying attention anymore. He’s entirely fascinated by your reactions - like you’re a puppet tugging on their own strings. You don’t want to like it, somewhere deep down you’re railing against your own body’s needs, but -

a keening sound you cannot stifle works its way up your throat when he moves your panties to the side and sinks a finger in. Mouthwatering. The softest thing he’s ever felt. Your nails dig into the nape of his neck, the blunt tips dragging along his hairline.

Yes, this - this is what he chases. Hard won surrender. Turning you into something that just can’t help it. How he cannot help himself.

You’re pulsing under his finger tips, muffling candied, yielding noises against his collarbone where you rest your forehead. The angle is awkward, but John can just get his thumb on your swollen, begging clit as he works a digit into your tight heat. He dips his chin to whisper into your ear as he sinks to the knuckle. “See? Not so bad, huh?”

Your whimper is answer enough.

He wants to know if you have ever pictured yourself doing this. In a car on a back road with a stranger, an officer, working your way out of a citation with sweat and tears. John is so filled with want he is choking on it, wants to know if the second finger he slides into you will make your thoughts drip from your mouth and into his. What are you thinking, right now, as you clench and shudder around him, suck him in, cry into his neck? He picks up his pace, hooking his pointer and middle as he circles his thumb. Doing all the work. He will work the answer out of you.

The grinding of your hips falter, breath coming ragged and thin, and you burrow your face deeper into the hollow of his collarbone - hiding from it. “You’re going to come?” he asks and does not wait for an answer. “That’s okay, love. Knew you’d like it, didn’t I? Wanted it.”

He takes your orgasm with claws and teeth, and savours every second.

John doesn’t give you a moments reprieve to come down from your high. He’s been very nice so far, but he’s so hard it hurts and the pulse of you around his fingers moments ago lets him know exactly what he missed out on. John holds his hand out for spit, to which you comply, and gives himself two rough tugs before lining up.

“Oh god, oh god,” you whisper when you realize - the first words you have spoken since this all began. Like you didn’t actually think it would get to this point. A nasty twist of humour jolts through him, and also a little pity.

“It’s okay,” John reassures you. Says it again as he sinks you down onto him, presses in to the hilt until your tied up tight like a bow at the base of his cock. Your dress is hiked up above your hips, underwear hooked into your inner thigh. Face flushed and gleaming with sweat, screwed up in concentration and fought pleasure and it’s triumph. It’s molten sugar squeezing around him, wet and slick and fever-pitched. Made all the sweeter when it’s you who starts moving first.

He can feel your thighs clenching in his lap, feel the muscles working as you slowly raise and lower yourself, picking the pace. Bathed in sweat and green radio light, consternation on your brow, chasing your own pleasure instead of his. You’re so tight around him he could pass out, and he doesn’t even have his hands on you. Doesn’t move a muscle. No, you move all on your own, no push from him needed. Your nails scrape against his chest, little moans and gasps flying from you every time you’re fully seated.

“Feels good, doesn’t it?” John asks. “Wanna look at me?”

Anger simmers in the tears on your lashline. Anger and want, bubbling frustration and the hazy smog of desire. He hushes you when you whine, when your legs start to tremble on every laborious lift and he can taste the dissatisfaction brewing in the air.

Poor thing. John can make it all go away.

“Let me help, honey,” he implores. But he waits.

You stop lifting and just grind down on him, canting breaths punching out of you like an old engine. He can feel every glide of your walls around him, and he could come just like this, he thinks. But you couldn’t. It’s not enough for you, he knows it’s not enough. You need him. You’re scrappy, he finds. Not willing to admit defeat even now. But you bend, eventually nodding, and John’s gums ache.

“What do you want me to do?” he asks.

Your words are ground out, punched from your teeth on a shaking breath. An admission. Complicity. “Move. Touch me. Something.”

He smiles and wraps your jaw in his palm, licking into your mouth as you gasp. “All you had to do was ask, love.”

His mouth doesn’t leave you again. John likes to kiss while he fucks - likes to gauge reactions to his ministrations on how dumb the movements get. He gets a thrill when the kisses grow distracted and sloppy - just muscle memory and the drive to eat. Likes swallowing moans and keens like soft, round pebbles. He learns the shape of your teeth as his hands vice around your hips, keeping you still as he pistons in and out of you. Frantic, now. A punishing pace. Every thrust grinds his sensitive head against the soft plug of your womb, and you’re bouncing, jostling in his lap and dripping honeyed whines down his throat. Crushing his shoulders under your hands, just holding on.

You clench around him, jaw dropped open for him. You can’t even kiss back, he bets you can’t even think. That’s okay. It’s okay. He’ll do the thinking for you.

“Want me to make you come again?” John asks, dropping a kiss to the corner of your agape mouth. “Want to give me another?”

You breathe a yes past his lips. John lets go of your hip and brings his hand between you, thumb descending to rub wicked circles over your swollen clit. Your slickness coats your inner thighs, dripping down onto his work pants. You’re shaking within seconds, trembling all the way to your palms as your eyes roll back in your head. A wild thought careens through his head, ricocheting off his skull and shattering into a thousand glittering pieces:

You’re very good. Sweet as honey. Just nervous enough to make his head itch and he could keep you. John could keep you and he knows a sure fire way to do it.

(This is where John loses himself - on the brink of possibility. When his mind seems to tumble away and the foundations of him rear. Dormant, base instincts - always there, but wrapped in a fine uniform and bloodlet into idiot criminals or washed down with a bottle of bourbon at the end of the day. This How far will I go? is like putting his hand close to a gas burner and wondering what if? John hunts risks. Not of what could happen, but what he could do. Officer John Price falls away, and he’s not certain what he is replaced with.)

(Whatever it is, you like it, don’t you? You like his arms hugged around your torso, like his fingers in your hair, on your clit. Like his tongue down your throat, needy, sloppy, thing. Gagging for it, aren’t you? You must be - you must be. When John puts two fingers in your mouth to kiss along your jaw, your lips close around them - humming moans he can feel in his knuckles. You’re strangling his cock like you want him. Could you want him a little bit longer?)

You bite down on the two fingers hooked onto your tongue. Not hard enough to break the skin, but enough to roll the joints between your teeth. Eyes closed, just chasing, chasing. John quickens his circles on your sensitive clit, needing to feel you come apart around him - but he’s on the edge. A vertiginous, fatal drop. What if? What if? He could ask you. Ask if you wanted him to come inside you, fuck you full and you might be so far gone that you say yes. Or you would beg. Beg him not to.

(And would the result be any different?)

Your whole body shudders on top of him, toes curling against the cracked leather, muscles winding tight like a kite string, and John’s mind goes blank.

He drops you off at your car a little while later. The vehicle sits silent and unassuming on the side of the midnight highway, right where it was left. Unchanged, unlike its driver.

John makes you promise to fix your taillight and sends you on your way, squinting at the silhouette of your mussed hair in the rear windshield as you speed down the road away from him. Just before you’re out of sight below the horizon, John writes your plate down on his palm. Just in case, he tells himself.

But back in his squad car, hidden once again in a thicket beside a bridge, the numbers and letters glare at him inked into his skin

and John doesn’t pretend.

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quarterlifekitty · 22 hours ago

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simon riley claiming that you're doin' it wrong after he finds you fucking yourself on a dildo twice as small as him. you don't even know how long he's been watching but it doesn't matter. he's standing at the foot of your bed and slipping the toy out of you before yanking you closer by the ankles faster than you can blink.

your gasp is interrupted by the way he nearly rips the zipper of his jeans and flings out his cock–slapping it hard against the palm of his other hand while letting a messy glob of spit sink from his lips, right down to where you're clenching around nothing.

don' even need that shit anyways, simon mumbles, spreading the wet with his fat tip before nudging himself inside you.

he fucks you, sharp and annoyed... yet his hand still drags to the back on your neck to tug you for a messy kiss. s'dumb... wastin' a pretty hole like this on some fuckin' silicone.

simon kisses you again. tongue and teeth knocking into yours. and still stuffing you so full that you can feel him reaching all the way to your stomach.

flexing inside you, simon grunts with a frown. biting into the scar on his lip with a peek down to at how wide you stretch at the base of his dick.

ju... jus' wait for me–fuck–next time, yeah? got all the cock you need, pretty... right here.

inspired (partially) by no. 1 on this prompt list! | © 𝐬𝐮𝐩𝐞𝐫𝐡𝐨𝐞𝐯𝐚

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quarterlifekitty · 22 hours ago

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and if i said that there's a version of ps!ghost that already has you bent over the edge of the leather couch, big hands steering your hips the way he wants them, tugging the lace of your knickers to the side (not even off, just enough to get what he wants) before the director's even let you know the camera's rolling.

"you nervous?" he murmurs, cloth mask brushing your ear as the red light beams, alive. "don't be."

he doesn't say it because he's gentle, but because he knows exactly what he's doing. knows your tells; how your breath snags in your throat when he spreads your thighs wider, how your lips tremble when he spits just to smear it in with his fingers.

"you're my favorite to shoot with," he says it like it's casual, like you're not already pulsing around the first inch of him.

no one can see his face behind the mask, but you feel the smile when he fucks in the rest of the way with a stretch that borders on unbearable, burying himself with a groan that vibrates in your bones.

"fuckin' perfect," he breathes, to no one and everyone.

"don't care what he script says." his hips grind, not fast but deep, and the sound of him— generously wet, dragging, greedy— makes the scene feel too intimate. too real.

"'m not pullin' out."

(ik he's nice in the other one i wrote but like cmon. CMON. he's even worse once the cameras stop rolling and the crew starts packing up omg)

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quarterlifekitty · 1 day ago

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ghost as that one tom selleck photo right

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quarterlifekitty · 2 days ago

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my brain horked up this extremely self-indulgent thing right before work, enjoy

cw: implied offscreen dubcon, sick parent (loose alzheimers mention), manipulation, implied stalking, unedited with a very abrupt ending bc i have to go to work lmao

"how much for the whole night?"

the words are more than just unexpected- you're in the parking lot of the grocery store, loading up the car with provisions for the week, in the worst sweatpants you own. you're not about to check right now, but you're pretty sure your socks don't even match. what he's asking doesn't compute at all.

"sorry, what?" you ask the man, blinking in bewilderment as he just leans against your car, casual as you please, like he's got the right or something. the corners of his dark eyes crinkle over the kn95 he's sporting, like he's just about to laugh in your face.

"how much money you want for me to fuck you all night long?" he says the words slowly, mocking condescension dripping off every syllable, as he pulls out a thick wad of bills from his hoodie pocket and starts thumbing through them, a line of fifties flashing against your eyes. shit, that's a lot of fucking money he's holding.

still.

"sorry, uh, that's- i think you're confused. i have somewhere to be for work, and that's not my job." you try to demure. there's nothing wrong with sex work, but that's not a job you have or particularly want. god bless the folks who actually do that line of work- they're made of tougher stuff than you, by a good measure.

"could be, though. olways a first time." the stranger insists, giving you a blatant once-over, his eyes lingering on your tits and hips.

"not tonight." you insist as you slam the boot shut.

"like you can't use the money." the stranger scoffs. "you tellin' me that old man can't use a nicer mattress in his medical bed? that you couldn't do with a hoyer lift that isn't busted to hell?"

the blood in your veins freezes, the sharp edges of ice threatening to slice you open from the inside and spill you onto the concrete right here and now. slowly, you turn to face the man with wide, terrified eyes.

"how do you-"

"you think i just picked some random bird to try to fuck?" he scoffs and steps closer, and on instinct you try to step back- only to bump into your own car. large, gloved (!!!) hands wrap around your forearms, further pinning you in place as he leans in even closer, the edge of his mask pressing to your cheek as he whispers in your ear.

"had my eye on you f'ages, birdie. seen how you dropped your whole life to look after the old man. watched you take him to his appointments, buy his groceries, move into his house to help out. such a good, helpful girl. and i've seen it- it's been hard on ya, hasn't it?"

those dark eyes stare at you, and you'd swear he's found a way to peek past your physical body and right into your soul, the way he's getting your eyes to water instantly. it has been hard- ever since dad got sick, your life has orbited around a man who only remembers who you are maybe a tenth of the time now. you put your whole life on pause, and all you've gotten in return is the exquisite grief of watching someone you love slowly fade away.

you nod, sniffling a little, and the stranger coos.

"don't worry, love. i'm here now, i'm gonna help- and my price is very, very reasonable." he chuckles, a low and unsettling heh heh heh as he runs his thumb across your cheek, smearing the errant tears that managed to wriggle off of your lashline.

"help?" you ask weakly, and he gives a quick, decisive nod.

"mhm. i'm strong enough t'lift the old man when y'need, got the money to get him to better doctors, get him a nicer bed, can do the work so you can take a bloody break, love." he murmurs, tilting his head. "and in return, oll you gotta do is lemme sleep in your bed and put it in ya twice a day."

all you can do is stare at him, open mouthed in shock. on one hand, if he's telling the truth, this is a game changer for you. even just having someone around to help pick your dad off the floor when he falls would be such a godsend- but if he's really willing to chip in with bills? with the chores? shit, you don't know that you can afford not to take him up on his offer. you're already run ragged, and you don't know how much gas is left in the tank before true burnout sets in.

"who are you?" you ask, hoping to buy yourself time before an actual answer is required.

"someone who understands takin' care of a parent who can't take care of themselves." he says cryptically, before releasing an arm to reach back and squeeze the plush fat of your rear. "and a connoisseur of big, fat arses. so what d'ya say, love? no sense in sayin' no, not when we'll both get what we're after."

he's right, unfortunately. this isn't an opportunity you can pass up, you're too close to the end of your rope to pass on this lifeline you've been offered. so long as nobody finds out about the particulars of this little arrangement, what's the harm? just one more sacrifice made in service of taking care of the man who helped raise you.

"okay." you say, voice almost whisper-quiet, but the stranger in front of you seems to hear you just fine, judging by the way the creases in the corners of his eyes deepen.

"good girl. now come on, give us the keys. i'll drive, and you can give me a down payment on the way." he says, plucking the keys from your hand with a wink as he adjusts his hard cock in his trousers.

on shaking legs, you climb into the passengers seat, not bothering to buckle up. what's the point, when he's just going to pull you over to suck him off? you're not looking to initiate it, though, so you just sit patiently, hands nervously folded in your lap as you wait for him to pull his cock out and tell you to get to work.

but he doesn't do it right away, expertly navigating the roads that lead right back to home, and suddenly a red flag that you'd been too distracted by the prospect of assistance and money becomes all too clear.

"how- how do you know which way to go?" you ask nervously, despite the fact that you already know the answer- it just feels so surreal that you need to hear it again. the man in the driver's seat laughs.

"olready told you- i had you picked out ages ago. just needed to time it right." he rolls to a stop at a red light and fumbles with his fly. "now come on, birdie. your turn. lets see what you're bringin' to this little arrangement."

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quarterlifekitty · 2 days ago

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sour fingers - preview

simon "ghost" riley x fem!reader | western!au | oneshot | a light AU to daughters with soft underbellies

After countless years of traveling, Simon Riley wanders into a small-town saloon owned by an old man who's quick to anger. His poor daughter seems to take the brunt of his berating for simple mistakes. As a favor to himself, Simon decides to buy the girl off of him as a wife.

cw: old west alternate universe, wayward outlaw! ghost, smut, dub-con, alcohol and intoxication, improper (or maybe too proper) use of spurs, blood and injury, historically typical views of women and purity, simon is a jerk but hey at least he's better than your dad

An old, fat dog lounges in the corner of the saloon with his eyes closed and belly facing up towards the smoke stained ceiling.

Simon’s been watching him for the last hour while he sips on his whiskey and chews on the butt of his cigarette, filter dissolving on the tip of his tongue. It’s as if he’s looking in a mirror. A washed up mutt with hardened skin finally reclining after too many years of work. Tapping his finger on the table, he keeps count of each respiration and breathes in time with the creature. He twitches in his sleep—tail wagging, cheeks puffing up with emphatic growls that hardly roll past his canines.

There’s nothing else of value to watch in the saloon besides the mangy creature. The poker game taking place three tables down is smothered with ancient men sporting white hair and liver spots who hardly let anything out of their lips except wet coughs, and the bartender has been muttering curses to himself for half the evening that Simon doubts he would make good conversation. Besides, he's a wayward man. Constantly on the move, traveling from place to place, refusing to linger for too long lest trouble finds him.

For now, he’s perfectly content on leaning back in his chair and enjoying his solitude—

—until you stumble in.

Pale pink fingerprints stain the cotton of your apron that you either didn’t bother to remove or forgot to hang up in the kitchen before bursting into the saloon with wild eyes and a heaving chest. As he takes a drag of his cigarette, Simon half expects some inebriated bastard to stagger in after you, caught in a drunken stupor trying to chase after some girl who he doesn't have even half the skill to catch in his maw. You are a sight for sore eyes. Certainly better than the half dead mutt keeping him company. Clad in a sky blue dress that seems all too common for women settling in the west and a gaze that can’t help but be magnetically attracted to the floor as you walk to the bar on lubberly legs, he nearly chuckles when you hold your hands behind your back.

“You’re late,” the barkeep berates.

“Sorry Daddy, I was finishing up chores, and the geese were pitching a fit again—” You’re tripping over your words worse than you do your feet. They spew between your teeth like water from a well pump that has too much pressure behind it.

“I don’t give a damn what held you up, girl. I tell you to be here no later than seven, and I expect that you listen to that,” the man—your father—snaps. Your apology comes so quiet that Simon can’t make out what you say, but he can tell by the curling of your shoulders that it exists. All you get in response is raised brows and a clenching jaw. “Well? Go on. I didn’t ask you to be here just to stand around.”

You slink away from the bar without another word before your gaze is cast out at the swathes of unoccupied tables around you. Simon flicks the ash from his cigarette onto the floor as he studies the way you mentally drink up the tasks laid out for you before you're springing to work. One by one you ignite the oil lamps that hang from the ceiling with precariously rusty chains. A curse hisses between your pursed lips when you burn your fingers on one of the matches, and you shove the raw pad against your tongue to numb the pain.

Simon doesn't bother to hide the way he watches you. His gaze is heavy beneath the brim of his hat, darker than the coal mines that line this pathetic excuse for a town and ten times more suffocating. You make the mistake of not carrying a canary with you as you approach his table—there is no sudden silence of a bird's song to warn you of the danger you're in—a meek smile graces your face as you light another match and reach up to ignite his lamp.

"Good evening, sir," you greet.

His fingers freeze against the table. Simon's lost his interest in keeping count of an old dog's breathing. "Evenin."

Your scent washes over him just as the oil begins to burn. Sweet like fresh strawberries, yet smothered by crude, unadulterated earth. Wet soil, the muck of animals. Simon studies the curve of your face as the flames illuminate your skin. Delectable flesh, pliable and soft—softer than him—yet the blemish on the apple of your cheek screams at him.

"Look at me, sweetheart." The pet name is kind, but his voice isn't. Jumping, the match burns down to your fingers again forcing you to yelp, but even through the pain you listen to him.

He's traded one dog for another.

When you question if something is wrong, Simon gives you no answer except for the beckoning of his fingers. Complying, you lean forward as he snatches your jaw in one hand and sticks his thumb into his mouth before smearing his spit across your cheek. It's wet like a kiss, and your skin drinks up his touch like starved earth yearning for any bit of rain the skies will bless it with. The dried mud flakes off with ease, and he wipes the remainder off on his stained jeans.

"O-Oh." When he relinquishes you, your hand flies up to your face where you begin to rub at your skin as if you can feel the mark he's left on you. "Thank you, sir."

Simon only hums in response before tapping the side of his glass. It rings like church bells on a bleak Sunday. "I'm dry."

Gruff. Short. Seemingly having no time for pleasantries. You awkwardly snatch his glass up before bringing it to your father where he berates you for not asking what was in it before you took it away. Luckily the saloon isn't too busy, and when you return his drink back to him Simon's happy to find that it's exactly what he ordered even though half of it is beaded on the outside of the cup from your blatant mishandling.

His night has become much more interesting now that he can watch you through the haze of his whiskey. Bent over on your hands and knees, sweat beading on your brow, you scrub the floor in the unoccupied areas of the saloon with a bristle brush. The view is nice. The curve of your ass presses through your dress like rising sourdough while you work, and when you're facing him your bodice cuts so low your cleavage glistens in the marmalade lighting.

John Price has always told him views like this were worth the money. His business partner has always been fond of the little thing he keeps locked up at home fat with his kids and sticky with the food he buys. Always got a fresh meal on the table for dinner and a sweet cunt to sink into for dessert. It's not half bad, Riley.

thanks for reading! full oneshot is up for early access for those of you who are interested in reading more! otherwise, it will be posted here on tumblr and ao3 in a few weeks <3

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quarterlifekitty · 2 days ago

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Fun fact! Gator mating calls are attractive to females bc of the vibrations they cause in the water more than the sound :]

Anyways gator!price having you straddle his thick hairy chest and letting out a massive bellow. The sheer intensity of is causes his ribs to vibrate, and price holds ur thighs down so ur forced to grind right into the vibrations.

Uh. Idk. Hybrids doing extra freak stuff bc of hybrid abilities.

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quarterlifekitty · 2 days ago

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soulmates, also known as the poor man's incest

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quarterlifekitty · 3 days ago

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OMG GAGE!! My boy!!!

I am a person of refined tastes yes

#not writing

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quarterlifekitty · 3 days ago

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"came back wrong" but it's more explicitly + intentionally about medical and/or caregiver abuse

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quarterlifekitty · 3 days ago

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delighted to see you’re a gale truther !!!!

YOU KNOW IT BROTHER!!!!

COD ain’t my first pathetic washed up man with a British accent rodeo….

#not writing

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quarterlifekitty · 3 days ago

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a/n: hastily written, not edited, and weird as fuck babyyy

cw: hybrid/folktale style stuff, dubcon (up to interpretation), some graphic imagery, breeding kink, kinda dark

And why should I take just one goat, when I could have all seven?

I’m the youngest. The most obedient. My flesh is the sweetest of us all.

But I’m also the fastest and the most clever. You will never catch me, not unless I allow you to.

I have more than myself to feed. You would walk into a den of wolves, then?

I would do that and more.

And do more you shall. You have a deal.

The rope around your neck was more symbolic than practical. A simple humiliation. An appetizer for what was to come, almost certainly. But if you were afraid, it didn’t show. Price kept on his guard.

They say wolves are untrustworthy, but they’re nothing compared to prey. The desperation to claw and cling to life from the jaws of death outweighs any scruple. He has the scars to show for it.

Eyes near inseparable from gleaming teeth leer from within the old mill. Your little cloven hooves clack against the creaking boards, groaning as their rusted nails protest.

The one with the uneven hair and the wild blue eyes is the first to be given your rope. As he begins to open his maw and unfurl his tongue, you squirm with practiced delicacy. Move to and fro just enough to draw the hems and bands of your clothes tight against your most ripe, succulent areas. Your skirts are kicked up, your drawers pressed close enough to reveal the leaking seam of your cunt through the thin cotton. The wolf’s sense of smell brings him down, drives his claws through your knickers. Until saliva drips hot and heady from his mouth right onto your clit, soon to be smeared by his wandering tongue.

You’re not eaten that night. Not in the intended way, at least.

Your rope is handed off to the wolf with the pretty face and disarming smile next. Just as you’re about to see the shine of his teeth, you ask: Don’t you want to know how I did it?

He’s ready to admit that he does. He’s been curious as to how John managed to come home with one goat instead of seven. And what a tale you spin… Of all your siblings and you, the last. You’re no trickster, not a liar, and yet an undercurrent of strategy persists… and leaves the wolf wanting more. Before long, the night has been spent trading tales and incendiary questions.

You’re not eaten that night.

Your rope is snatched by the wolf scarred to hell and cloaked in black. You make as he does– slipping into the frail visage of every passing textile to hide. The woolen blanket. The pincushion on the mantle. The tassels of the rug. The virgin in the tapestry on the wall. The cotton balls in the jar on the side table, right next to the iodine. You jump from place to place in a manner most hypnotic, until the wolf falls right to sleep. A more restful sleep than he’s had in decades.

You’re not eaten that night.

The next wolf wears a glittering chain, and keeps your rope wrapped loose in his grasp, with barely any slack separating you. He asks you if you have any final wishes before you’re devoured. You have the gall to burst into tears.

He cannot keep himself from gathering you into his lap, claws tangled in your fur, letting you soak the coarse hair of his chest.

Moya dorogaya kozochka, will you stop your tears if I tell you a secret?

You nod, hesitantly.

The thing John wants more than anything is progeny.

Though your tears cease, you do not let go of the wolf. And he does not let go of you, a low rumble in his chest lulling you both.

You’re not eaten that night.

The last wolf, the first wolf, John– shoots a questioning, analytical gaze at the rest of his pack. You’ve escaped from their claws and teeth, one after the other, and the gears in his head tick on and on to reckon with that. He leads you by your rope to a cool, smooth counter. His paws knock behind your knees so he can catch you in his arms, bringing you up to lay your body down. Though he looks down at you now, trying to convey a lack of acknowledgement, as if you were nothing more than some heaps of unconsumed flesh, you know better.You can see the ticking behind his eyes. Claws make quick work of your clothes.

His examination starts at your temple and moves down. His claws graze the apples of your cheeks, down your jaw, to the hollow of your throat. They trail, categorizing– the shoulder, the breast, the forshank, the rack– his touching growing bold as his full palm presses against your skin. His claws begin to scrape, dig, and you choose the moment he feels over your lower stomach to grab his wrist and keep it there.

He lets you.

You hold your gaze to his, and your pupils dilate.

He knows all at once what you offer. He considers the approval you’ve earned from his pack. Were he to take your segmented remains to them, they would eat of you, and gladly, in communion.

Were he to take you to them, full of him, and ready to grow the pack– it would complete them.

You’re more clever than he ever thought prey could be. Even now, you look at him with those dumb, livestock eyes– if you’re privy to your victory, you’re not letting on. He wanders to the short edge of the counter, grabbing your ankles and yanking– pulling you close and spreading those plush, inviting thighs to see your glistening cunt. Ripe, wet, and sweet-smelling– like summer fruit waiting to be picked. Your eyes stay locked as he disrobes, letting his clothes fall away to the floor. He slots himself between your thighs, before he grits his teeth and grabs you by the waist.

Price had thought he’d be content to fuck you on that counter, but he was wrong. The floor is where mating animals belong, and that’s where he lays your back before he looms over you. Large, calloused hands find your hips and angle them up– his ruddy, thick cock rutting against your folds. The wolf noses at your neck, lathing his tongue over it with teeth poised– he could rip your throat out if he wanted, but you already knew that.

He pushes in, the burn from the stretch subsisting despite any time you’d spent playing with yourself. Price teethes at your skin, feeling your pulse thrum against his tongue as he continues his merciless pursuit– seeking the mouth of your womb with the tip of his leaking cock. The growl that leaves the wolf when he’s found what he’s looking for is nothing short of ferocious. His thrusts pick up speed, his hands working to keep your hips angled so far up that you feel like you’ve been bent in half. He frees one hand to press his palm back to your stomach, pulling back to look at you as he relishes in the feeling of his dick pushing against your skin from the inside.

What differentiates massaging and bruising?

Your cervix is too overstimulated to answer.

When the wolf’s knot starts to swell at your entrance, you swear you might black out.

“Pups,” Price grits out, “or kids? Which do you think they’ll be, darl’?”

When you’re next presented to his pack, they lounge around you, sniffing curiously. Your insides are warm with their alpha’s seed, and they could smell it from a mile away.

You start being coddled before you even have time to get your head on straight. Your head is pulled into the lap of the wolf with the gold chain– Nikolai, his name is, but he bids you call him Kolya.

The door creaks shut as the scarred wolf– Simon, you’re told– as he goes out to hunt. Forage? Find whatever the fuck it is goats eat.

The pretty wolf– ‘it’s Kyle, babe’-- brings you a fresh cup of herbal tea, holding and tipping it for you so you can take little sips.

A big, furry hide is tucked around your body by the wild-eyed wolf. He says you can call him whatever the hell you want, bonnie– but he gets scolded by the name Soap when he gets a little too nippy with you in his excitement.

The alpha, Price, reads on his own, a cigar perched between his fingers, but you get the feeling every time you take your eyes off him that he’s flicking between watching you and watching the door, alert and attentive.

You smile and drift away, ready for the night to be over– to greet the sun.

And to think, they didn’t believe you when you said you’d come up with a way to save them from the wolves for good.

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