#wedge bolt

[fixdex-fastening-technology]

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[guitarbomb]

The James Hetfield OGV Electra Flying V

The James Hetfield Electra OGV is a fan favourite guitar. In a recent interview with Metallica’s frontman James Hetfield’s guitar tech, Chad Zaemisch, some fascinating details about James Hetfield’s old Electra Flying V guitar came to light. James Hetfield Electra OGV Notably, they acquired a few more of the same model, shedding light on a crucial chapter in the history of rock and roll. This…

[okingmetal]

Wedge Anchor Bolt

[andypantsx3]

contents: general bakugou x princess reader; fem + afab virgin reader. nsft; oral (f receiving) & missionary. semi-sequel to this drabble. 3.2k.

Your wedding day arrives far earlier than you are prepared for.

It’s a tense affair, for you at least. The country depends on it, and you feel the scheming eyes of the nobility hot on your skin as you pronounce your vows to Bakugou. They will not take kindly to your having chosen him over their sons and brothers, over their own desire to rise to power. There will be a price they will want you to pay, soon enough.

The chapel is resplendent with sumptuous decor, the court in their finest. But the room is fringed with Bakugou’s men in their military leathers, a reminder that this is not a happy day, but rather a dangerous political stunt. It keeps the noble houses docile while they are in the room with you, but you know they will return to their estates and their plans. 

Your fate is in Bakugou’s hands, now, in more ways than one.

The ceremony is dizzying, and impossible to wrap your head around. The preceptor pronounces Bakugou your prince-consort, ostensibly to remain so while you assume the throne after your father’s passing. You will continue to rule him as his sovereign. But your vows to Bakugou also promise him your obedience as his wife. 

It is a contradiction, an impossible trap, the very reason why the general is the only man you could stomach the thought of marrying. If a husband is to rule you after all, Bakugou will do so justly. 

The thought does not stifle your nerves, however, as you make your way back down the aisle, sit down to the reception, and take your meal. A disquieting, anticipatory feeling settles over you, fizzing under your skin. You barely pick at your dinner, and drink too much of the wine.

You can tell Bakugou notices, scarlet gaze ever-perceptive, though he does not say anything until you are shepherded to the bridal suite to consummate.

Various aides try to follow you in to prepare you, but Bakugou slams the door closed on them, propping it shut with one broad shoulder. He barks at them to scram.

“Lord General—that is, Your Highness,” one of them stutters through the door. “We are required to witness the consummation—to verify that it is complete.”

A bolt of shame goes through you at this, and you catch hold of one of the intricately-carved wooden bed pillars. Bakugou grunts, holding the door closed with one palm while spinning to the nearby dressing table and chair. He grabs the chair, wedging it forcefully up under the door handle.

“You’ll be sure of consummation when I’m done here,” he growls through the door. “Don’t need you little fucking perverts making eyes the whole damn time. Now beat it.”

A weird sound escapes you, something between a gasp and a laugh—at his promise, at his gruffness.

“Your Highness,” comes a plaintive entreaty through the door. Bakugou slams a fist against it, and you hear a squeal and a sound like someone’s fallen over their feet.

An absurd laugh seizes you, and Bakugou eyes you pettishly.

“The fuck’re you laughing about,” he says, but there’s no heat in it.

Your fingers twist on the bedpost, nervously tracing the lines. “You’re taking to your new post well.”

Bakugou’s features twist into something dangerously satisfied, a smirk painting his mouth. Your breath comes short.

“My post,” he echoes, raising an eyebrow. “As your husband.”

Your stomach swoops. The disquiet flames back to life under your skin, settling heavy in your gut like a stone. 

“I supposed it is a post like any other,” you say, fixing your gaze on the ground. “There are responsibilities and… marital duties.”

You hear the soft tread of Bakugou’s boot as he steps away from the door, the rustle of his doublet as he draws closer. His many medals and ceremonial sword belt clink softly. It is a fashion you know he does not prefer, always living in his shirtsleeves—the better to fight in, to train in.

A calloused hand takes your chin, tipping your face up to his.

“You nervous, Princess?” he asks. His tone is obnoxious, as usual, but his crimson gaze traces your face.

You barely suppress a shiver under his touch. Your stomach churns with a thousand emotions and you find you don’t know how to feel. Relieved that you’ve made it this far. Annoyed with Bakugou’s composure and general manner. Apprehensive about what is to come. And warm, suddenly, all over. You do not want to examine why.

“Nonsense,” you sniff. 

A feral smile curls the corner of Bakugou’s mouth like he sees right through you. “You’ve never been with a man.”

Your face burns but you force yourself to return Bakugou’s assessing stare. “I’ve never been to Musutafu, either, but I know it well enough. I should think I am… prepared.”

Something hot alights in Bakugou’s gaze, burning like a coal. It’s not unlike how he looked at you that night in the dark outside his chambers, when you’d first come to him with this wild proposal.

“And what do you think you know,” he says, flatter than a question.

Your nose grows hot. “Enough.”

A thumb slides along your jaw, settling against the pulse in your neck. “Answer the question, angel.”

Your face just might be on fire. You steel yourself, reciting dispassionately. “You will undress me and then… enter me. I shall lie still—they say you can breathe through the pain and it will go away after some time. You will… work yourself to completion. And then we shall be done.”

A snort comes from Bakugou. “Is that how you royal tightasses do it?”

You feel your eyes narrow. “That is how everyone does it.”

Your ladies in waiting had been very emphatic. All of them had spoken of the same mechanics. The initial discomfort, the pain, the way a husband moved upon his wife until he was satisfied.

“You don’t know shit, Princess,” Bakugou says.

You reach up to pull his hand from your face, but he tenses, arm growing solid and immovable. 

“Explains why all you nobles are such fucking tight-buttoned pricks if that’s how you’re doing it.”

Your reply is startled out of you when his hand finds your waist. You take a step back, and then another, startling again when your back finds the wall. Bakugou follows you, eyes hot.

“You are insufferable,” you inform him hotly. “I am sure of the matter.”

“You’re always sure of a lot of things, Princess,” he says. His hand is back at your waist, and suddenly all your skin feels too hot and tight, stifling like a velvet dress in summer.

“I am sure you are the most obnoxious man on earth,” you say. “Now be quiet and commence with it. Let’s have done with it.”

Bakugou’s face is suddenly closer than you’d remembered it being.

“I’ll have done with you alright,” he says. “But I’m not gonna do it like you little uppity prudes.”

You find you can’t think of what he means, all of your thoughts clouded with his proximity, the feeling of his hand moving to your skirts.

“I—but there is only the one way,” you manage. None of your ladies had mentioned anything else.

Bakugou’s mouth cuts into a smirk again, and you hate him for how pretty it is. 

“We’ll fuckin’ see about that,” he says.

And then his mouth is pressed to yours. 

It’s nothing like the stilted peck you’d been obliged to give him at the ceremony—one that still left your face burning, for some unknowable reason. This feels entirely different in its intensity. Bakugou’s mouth is hot and soft and tempting and eager, and your body thrills with it.

Every inch of your skin feels like it zings with lightning when he licks into your mouth, and he presses you harder into the wall. You feel his groan all the way down to your toes.

“B–akugou,” you pant when his mouth leaves yours, only to stifle a yip when he moves down to your throat. He sucks a mark there, laving over it with his tongue, and you feel like you're melting in his hands. “That’s—not my—ah!—mouth,” you manage.

The tiniest scrape of teeth has you yelping again, and you find yourself clutching his bicep for purchase.

“No shit,” he says, leaving another mark lower, mapping his way towards your chest. Calloused fingers come up to cup one of your breasts, thumb swiping over your nipple through your stays. You catch hold of his hair, yanking a fistful of that flaxen blonde, clenching your thighs together.

“What are you doing?” you hiss. 

Bakugou looks up at you, expression annoyed. “Consummating.”

“But you’re not undressing me,” you say. “And shouldn’t we—on the bed?

Bakugou raises a blonde eyebrow. “They tell you it needs to be on a bed, too?”

You blink, momentarily disarmed. It was quite literally called sharing the marriage bed—where else were you supposed to do it?

“Are you sure we’re talking about the same thing?” you eventually ask him.

Both of Bakugou’s eyebrows shoot for the moon, and he looks very suddenly like he wants to laugh. A grin yanks at his mouth, sharp and beautiful.

“I knew you’d be a fucking handful,” he says, his tone somehow both annoyed and delighted. “Don’t even know what the fuck you’re talking about and you’re still trying to give me orders.”

You yank at the fistful of his hair you’re still clutching and he hisses, hand shooting out to grab yours. He works your grip off of him, pinning your wrist to the wall. The air in the room suddenly feels a hundred times thicker, like trying to breathe through honey.

“Listen closely, Princess,” he tells you, leaning in. “We're going to consummate, alright. But I’m not just gonna squeeze my eyes shut and stick it in. I’m going to do what I want first, and you’re going to be good and let me.”

Your face ignites in flame. You want to disagree reflexively. “If it’s going to be painful I’d rather just have it over with, if you don’t mind,” you say.

Bakugou stares back, scarlet gaze roving over you. “It’s not gonna be if you shut up and let me do what I want.”

You blink. You hadn’t heard that there was a way around the pain—why hadn’t anyone told you?

“I—really?” you ask.

Bakugou nods. “Really.”

“Oh,” you say. “Well then… you may proceed, I suppose.”

“You suppose,” he echoes, staring you down. The look on his face makes you want to lean forward and bite it off.

“Well get on with it,” you say, arching your eyebrows.

Bakugou looks for a moment like he wants to shake you. But he ducks his head instead, lowering his mouth to yours again.

“Gonna fuck that bossiness right out of you,” he mutters, low like he’s promising himself and not you. But then he kisses you again, muffling your gasp in his mouth.

You’ve never kissed another man, and do not have a frame of reference for what he’s doing. But Bakugou is a good kisser, you think. Every flick of his tongue feels like someone has uncorked champagne and poured it beneath your skin, and every brush of his mouth against yours sends a liquid heat racing through your veins.

You moan into his mouth when calloused fingers delve beneath the collar of your gown, dipping into your stays and pinching a nipple. He rolls it carefully, and you arch against him without any say-so from your brain. 

“Been thinking about this, Princess,” he says. “Ever since I saw you in that little nightdress. Gonna show you what it really means to be with a man.”

You’re excused from answering by his mouth back on yours. Not that you think you could, with the way his fingers feel in the cups of your stays, or the press of a strong thigh between your own.

“Bakugou,” you gasp when he peels off of you, only to sink to his knees before you.

“It’s Katsuki,” he says, busying himself with the hem of your skirts. 

“B–Katsuki,” you say. “What are you doing?”

Long fingers roll up the hemline of your dress, then yank at your underthings, exposing you to him. You gasp again, moving to cover yourself, but Bakugou pins you to the wall with an arm across your stomach, catching your thigh and pulling it over his shoulder.

“Husbandly duties,” he replies, another smirk on his mouth.

And then your head thunks against the wall as that mouth moves, pressing to you.

“Katsuki!” you shout, biting off into an embarrassing moan when he laves over you. No one had told you about this part—about how a man’s mouth there would make you feel like fireworks had just been lit off in your veins. About how a man’s mouth could even go there at all.

Bakugou doesn’t reply, kissing you there as he had your lips. A delicate suck from him over the cleft of you has you arching in his hands again, and you can quite literally feel him smirking against you.

He works you thoroughly, licking and sucking for what feels like torturous hours, but must only be minutes, until you’re a writhing, panting mess, only held upright by the arm he has banded across your lower stomach. There’s a pressure rising within you, pooling in all your limbs, making you shake and shiver with it, and what feels like no way to release it.

“Katsuki—I feel strange,” you say, bucking against his mouth. “Oh—oh!”

“Just hold on, sweetheart, and let yourself feel it,” Katsuki tells you, before licking back over you. A finger presses up inside of you, foreign but strangely good in conjunction with his mouth. Then another one presses in and they curl as if seeking something, making you twist in his grip.

And then something makes you jerk—the press of Katsuki’s fingers inside you in just the right spot, while he sucks on you, feeling like he’s touching the same place inside of you from both sides.

Something inside you snaps, uncoiling, pleasure flooding down you like a mudslide. You cry out Bakugou’s name, tears in your vision, riding out your pleasure against his mouth. Bakugou licks you through it, groaning low in his throat with appreciation.

“That’s it, Princess,” he says, tone rough. “Now you’re ready for consummation.”

You hear his words as if through a haze, and it’s only once you’re moving—being picked up and carried over to the bed—that you register what he’s saying.

He frees himself from his breeches, and stretches out over you, kissing your mouth. You’re embarrassed to taste yourself on him, but the press of him to you overrides that concern. In one smooth stroke he presses in, and you are shocked to find that he slides home easily, your core slick and ready.

It feels strange, but not at all unpleasant—absolutely nothing like what they’d told you.

“You alright, Princess?” Bakugou asks.

“I—yes,” you say, voice fluttering off when he flexes his hips, moving inside of you. The slide of him inside of you is unexpectedly good, especially when he lowers a hand to your core, pressing a thumb to that bundle of nerves at the hood of you.

“Feel good?” he asks, his eyes hot on your face. You cling to him, hips lifting into him unthinkingly as his thumb pets over you again, as he presses in and out of you a few more times.

You nod, not wanting to give him the satisfaction of saying it aloud.

He grins anyway, feral and fever-bright. His pace picks up into something faster, and you’re embarrassed to hear the slap of him against you, the eager way your body welcomes him in.

The band of pressure builds up inside you again, slowly, with every sure stroke of Bakugou inside you. He’s hot and hard and heavy over you, pressing you into the mattress, and the tops of his cheeks are flush with effort—the way he looks sometimes when he’s just come in from the training pitch.

He’s beautiful—handsome and strong and hot-headed and determined. And it dawns on you that he’s yours now—not just your subject but your husband, your prince consort, and now your lover.

It makes all your skin turn molten hot again, especially when you look down and see your knees have rucked his shirt up. You can see the flex of his abs as he thrusts between your thighs, all that golden skin and dense muscle.

The slide of him inside you and the sight of him over you is suddenly too much, and you feel yourself tip right over the edge again. Bakugou catches your hand as you lift it to muffle your cry, kissing over your knuckles.

“That’s it, Princess, that’s it,” he says again, ducking his head to kiss you.

You moan into his mouth as he fucks you through it, and he groans with the clench of you.

“Feel so fuckin’ good,” he says against your lips, pace picking up faster. “Knew you would, sweetheart, yeah.”

Embarrassingly you feel almost like you could come apart again with the praise. Bakugou groans once more, and you can hear his grip tighten in the blanket next to your head. His hips buck and flex, wildly uncontrolled now, until he gives one final hard thrust.

His weight pins you down when he relaxes over you, his breath tickling over your shoulder. You find you like the weight of him on you, covering you, like a shield against the rest of the world.

Apt, for a general.

“Better than how you wanted to do it, wasn’t it, Princess?” he asks, smug.

You scoff, but you catch the flash of a white grin in the corner of your vision. There is really no question that he’d had the better of it, this time.

“Knew you’d see it my way,” he says.

Over him, you can hear the flutter of feet outside the door, some muffled discussion. Heat rises to your face when you realize the castle aids most definitely heard you cry out under Bakugou’s ministrations. There will be no doubt of your consummation now, regardless of whether you were observed.

“Nosy fuckin’ perverts,” Bakugou says, rolling off of you. You catch another flicker of his chest with the way his shirt gapes, and he looks doubly smug when he notices.

“Not done yet, angel?” he says.

“I am, thank you.” You flush, embarrassed at having been caught. But Bakugou stretches an arm out to yank you over him, pressing you down over his hips.

Your stomach flutters.

“Give me a couple more minutes, Princess,” Bakugou says, scarlet eyes flashing with heat once more. His hand raises to trail through your hair, catching in the wedding hairstyle they’d pinned you into. 

“Five more minutes,” your new husband promises you, with a grin like the devil. “And then we'll give them something to really listen to.”

[softaestluv]

Nine Lives

Simon Riley posts an ad for a stray cat he does not want and you answer.

Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley x fem! Reader

Tags: short n’ sweet, fluff, smut, dirty talk, fingering, Creampie, penis in vagina sex, over use of terms of endearment

pt. 1 | pt. 2 | pt. 3 | pt. 4 | pt. 5 | mlist | ao3

this chapter does contain smut, 18+ content & is the final chapter

A cat.

His stupid cat.

His stupid fawn-colored cat.

Found three days later wedged under a dumpster in an alleyway, she yowled high-pitched and distressed when Simon pulled her out. Fawn-colored fur a little dirty and matted, hungry and scared, but she wasn’t hurt, no scratches or cuts on her after a quick examination.

Churro was okay.

Never better as she snuggled into his arms as soon as she recognized his gruff voice and broad chest. Grumbled harsh grievances to her he didn’t really mean as he carried her home because she was gone for three whole days, making his pretty cat lady entirely too stressed over a feline.

Only cursed more complaints at her when he attempted to bathe her. A bath that only resulted in scratches on his forearms and hands, left him with a cat still filthy and matted— Don’t you trust me, bloody pest?

So, he cleaned her down with a warm moist towel and wiped the bigger clumps of dirt out the best he could after he gave her a bowl of food and water. Even gave her one of the creamy snack pouches she likes before he sent you a picture of her curled on his couch like she never left— Sweet girl is here.

Your response is instant, sending an overwhelming amount of exclamation marks, capital letters, and hearts that make the corners of his lips twitch chest warming. You ask him if he can drop her off at your place since you can’t come pick her up. It’s the first time you’ve invited him over, the first time he’ll see you since he carried your crying frame to his bed and cuddled you to sleep. Since you woke up in his arms, pressing yourself deeper into his chest with a quiet noise of protest when he tried to get up.

The image of you snuggling closer into him played in his mind on repeat, blinking up at him bleary-eyed and swollen from crying the night before, tangled in his sheets. Divine and breathtakingly gorgeous with bed head and groggy smiles. Took all his strength not to pin you under his larger frame and kiss your morning breath away. Melt all your worries about Churro’s safety with his tongue and fingers.

He settled with a kiss to your temple.

When he arrives at your apartment, he tries to ignore the fact that his precious girl has been living in a shitty neighborhood. Apartment is even shittier, no cameras or bolted locks on your door for safety. He’ll fix that, eventually, and well, Churro already thinks his home is her second home, might as well make it her only home.

You open the door before he even has time to finish his knock, peering at him and Churro with wide, excited eyes. You lunge forward with a happy squeal, stealing Churro from his arms and squeezing her tightly in yours.

“Oh, my pretty lady! You’re okay, I’m so glad you’re okay! I was so worried, angel. I thought you were gone forever, don’t do that again, okay?”

Simon follows you in as you talk animatedly to Churro, pressing countless kisses to her head. Churro purrs louder than Simon’s ever heard her before as you snuggle against her face.

Before he knew you, before he knew Churro, he would’ve rolled his eyes and glowered at the display of affection to a four-legged pest, but now, he knows the two of you. Knows how much you care for her, how such an annoying animal can claw its dainty legs under his skin and carve out a Churro-shaped hole in his heart.

Now, he gets it. Now, he can’t help but crinkle his eyes affectionately at the display in front of him because it fills his chest and lungs in such a thick, tacky way he’s never felt before. And he’s just relieved that he’s the one who found her for you, who returned her to your arms, so he can be a part of the sweet interaction.

It’s a moment before you turn towards him, but he doesn’t mind. He watches you without complaint any chance he gets, doesn’t even look away when you catch him and begin to open your mouth, ask him an abundance of questions, but he speaks before you can even begin.

“Found her in an alley a few blocks from my house. Got stuck under a dumpster somehow. She isn’t hurt at all, checked her already, jus’ got lost is all. Gave her water and food too, even one of her little pouches.” He explains, your lips forming a small smile like you were trying to hold back your smug comments. “Tried to give her a bath, but she was not having it. Bloody clawed my arms raw.”

You laughed, “Cats don’t like water!”

“I know.” He said, pointing to the cuts on his hands as his evidence, “But she was dirty. Needed to bloody clean her somehow.”

You place Churro on your table, walking over to pull his hands in yours, examining the small scratches decorating his already scarred skin. He thinks you might feel bad, that you’re going to apologize for her behavior, but when you look up at him you’re smiling so big that he can hardly see your irises. It makes the breath catch in his throat that such a warm look is meant for him.

“Thank you,” You murmur, eyes glassy, “For caring for her so much. Always knew the big scary man was soft for us”

Your words, the tears welling in your lashes leave him a little speechless, staring dumbfounded for longer than he probably should. Maybe he should be offended that you’re calling him soft because he’s anything but— just for you two though.

“Of course, baby. I care about the both of you. She’s our cat and you’re my girl.”

Your eyes widen, mouth parting in quiet shock, and you divert your attention back to his arms, gently tracing the cuts in a weak attempt to distract yourself. Maybe he shouldn’t have said that without asking, but it’s true. You are his and he’s sure you know that by now.

He cups your face, fingers curling behind your head, thumbs resting in front of your ears, “My pretty cat lady.”

“I really want to kiss you right now.” You murmur.

He huffs a laugh at your confession, leaning down so that your noses press against each other, “Yeah?”

You nod coyly, wrapping both of your hands around his wrists.

So, he does.

God, it’s so fucking sweet, you’re so fucking sweet and soft that he almost thinks he doesn’t deserve it. Not when he’s quite the antithesis of such words, when callous and ruthlessness seem to describe him better when violence and bitterness seem engraved in his bones. When he hasn’t felt the urge to hold something in his grasp with such care, glass in his palms, fragile and delicate before you and Churro came into his life.

It’s tender, dragging his lips against yours languidly, but it’s deliberate, determined. Doesn’t intend to rush through the kiss, doesn’t want to diminish the moment into animalistic instincts and lust. Instead, he’ll take his time, wants to ingrain the moment, the way you taste, saccharine and sweet, the way you feel, doughy and pliant, the noises you make, melodic and mollifying, into the back of his skull.

The feeling melts over him and his tongue bursts an aromatic taste in his mouth. It’s molten honey and syrup, rich and balmy. Makes him hoist you onto your counter, wedging his way between your thighs, but you make a quiet noise of protest that makes him pull away just enough to let you breathe, lips swollen and pretty covered in his spit.

“Not here,” You pant, gesturing towards Churro perched on the table when he tilts his head in slight confusion, “Not in front of her.”

Simon laughs, you’re cute.

You hop down from the counter, tangling your fingers in his to guide him to your bedroom, closing the door behind you to lock Churro out. You peel your shirt off before climbing onto the bed, resting on your elbows to stare up at him through your lashes, rocking your foot, and biting your lip tauntingly. It makes his mouth water, crawling over your frame to grip your ankle and spread your legs wide to accommodate his size. Shifting your thighs over his hips as he settles his weight on his forearms on either side of your head.

“Thought you didn’t like cat ladies,” You tease, dipping your fingers in the collar of his shirt to pull him closer to your face.

“I don’t, jus’ you.” He stamps his mouth against yours with a bit more fever, playfully nipping against your bottom lip that earns him a muffled gasp, allows him to lick into your mouth, and delve deeper into your taste. “Must really be a witch, you an’ Churro both.”

You choke on a chuckle when he moves to the crook of your neck, littering wet stamps against the delicate flesh of your throat. Sucking the skin between his lips and teeth, kneading the supple flesh of your breasts and hips in his large palms until you begin to writhe impatiently trapped under his frame, wringing his shirt in your fists, chest swelling with shallow lungfuls.

“Must’ve put some spell on me.” He mutters, tugging at the hooks of your bra until your breast spills from the cups. “Maybe you put some potion in my tea when I wasn’ lookin’.”

You laugh again, sound morphing in a quiet whine when he seals his lips around your pebbled nipples, “No, I think Churro might be Cupid.”

He smiles around your nipple because it’s true. He never believed in fate, barely clung to the evaporating idea of love before you. If it wasn’t for that damned cat he definitely wouldn’t have you shirtless under him, hips gradually grinding against the front of his jeans the longer he takes to peel your shorts and panties off. Wouldn’t have an all-consuming desire festering in his chest.

The two of you have been playful, soft, and sweet, basking in each other’s lips and touch, but when he finally slips the lace material off your hips the room seems to shrink, becomes heady and suffocating. Makes his eyelids feel heavy, breaths ragged, turns every touch against your flesh searing and branding, burns an ache straight to your core.

He slides down your frame until his face rests between your thighs, perching one of your legs over his shoulder, and pushing the other one wide, splaying his hand on the inside of your thigh. It leaves your cunt bare and spread for him, and he has to stifle a groan at the sight.

God, are you perfect, pussy glistening and swollen for attention. For his attention, peel the hood back and suckle your clit, give the pulsing bead any stimulation.

So, he does.

Presses a soft peck against the puffy flesh.

“Simon.” You say a little breathless, and fuck does his name sound pretty on your lips.

It’s enough to entice him to lick a thick stripe over your pussy, doubling back over your clit in calculated strokes and firm shapes. Your hands fly to his head, sifting your fingers through his hair, frantically trying to grip onto something, so you don’t immediately melt into the pleasure.

But that just won’t do, will it sweetheart?

He suctions the sensitive bead between his lips and sucks gently as if not to suddenly overwhelm you.

“Simon!” You moan, arching your back slightly in shock.

The noise is hypnotizing, your taste just as addictive, and he finds himself holding your thigh down from clamping constrictively over his head, so he can lap eagerly between your folds. Each movement makes a new mewl slip from your lips, makes your pretty legs tremor and shake, stomach tightening the closer he brings you to the brink.

He’d be lying if he said he didn’t imagine this situation in his head each time you sat on his couch. Had tried his best to ignore it, not picture the way you would shed your layers on his tongue, but it was almost impossible when his cock was heavy in his pants with need. And now, it’s even harder for him to stop, the thought doesn’t even cross his mind when you look so pretty laid under him, watching you arch into his touch like it’s the only thing you need.

His cock is throbbing and painfully hard in his pants when he slips a finger into your sopping cunt. He should probably work you up to it, but he can’t resist when you look so desperate, weeping for more by clinging to his digits, so he adds a second soon after. And you take it so fucking well, your gummy walls spreading so heavenly over his thick fingers.

You cry out when he begins to bury them into your welcoming cunt, smothering his tongue against your swollen clit with more fervor, a different determination to make the insistent fire lapping in your womb burst and fill the palm of his hand.

You’re gasping and shaking, gripping onto the sheets before tangling your fingers in his hair, trying to clamp your legs shut before spreading them further apart because it’s too much, body stinging with insatiable pleasure, but it's not enough at the same time, pleading your way to your orgasm.

And Simon is more than willing to give his girl what she wants.

You clench painfully around his fingers, moan punches straight out of your lungs when you finally do, burying your face into your sheets. It’s a sight watching your walls quiver, watching your hips convulse, watching your breasts jiggle with each inhale— Jesus, baby, look at tha’, fuckin’ pretty little thing you are.

He strokes your poor cunt through it, stripping himself of his clothing the best he can with one hand. His cock is already leaking, reddened, and swollen, lined up with your entrance before you’ve completely returned to reality. He doesn’t break through your walls until he’s got your lips around his, whimper deliriously into his mouth, wrapping your arms around his neck, and cling to him desperately.

Your nails dig into his shoulders, mouth popping open when he starts to sink in. He has to rest his forehead against yours, squeeze his eyes shut at the sensation of your pussy. Warm and gummy, so fucking tight, clenching a suffocating ring around the base of his cock when he bottoms out. It takes a moment for him to muster his strength, will himself not to fucking outright cum against your cervix when you feel so fucking good.

It’s almost painful when you begin to speak and your voice is so dainty, shaky, and whiny, ask him so sweetly to move, fuck into your aching cunt and soothe the fire pulsing under your skin— Simon, oh my, you’re fucking big. Fuck, why didn’t you tell me you were this big?

He tries to laugh, but it just comes out strained, “I know, baby, I know. You can take it though, right? Make you take, don’t worry.”

You just nod at him, a little dazed from being stuffed so full, stretched so thin around his fat cock that you’d just agree to anything he says with knotted brows and pleading eyes.

He can’t wait for the day he’ll fuck you in two, make you sob and drunk off his cock, aggressive and unrelenting, bend you over every surface he can before rucking your oversized clothes up and ravaging your pretty cunt. There’s no rush, he’s waited this long to even get a taste of your lips, and he plans to keep it intimate, tender, show you how you’ve unearthed something in him he thought he wasn’t capable of. But he was, just for you.

So, he fucks you nice and slow, cock dragging against your swollen walls so heavenly, thrusts real deep and languid, kissing your cervix gently with each stroke that makes your legs shake, eyes rolling to the back of your head. Hiccuping for breath each time he pulls out to the very tip of his cock head, just to plunge back in your pulsing walls, so his balls smack lightly against your taint. Makes you take every inch so you can feel it in your fucking throat.

His name is like a prayer on your lips, chanting it between breathy whines, and weak attempts to ground yourself back to reality and not the way his fattened cock keeps grinding against that gooey spot in your pussy. Toe’s covered in your signature fuzzy socks curling against his back, arching so pretty against his pelvis each time he ruts into that gummy spot.

You whimper when he tangles his hand in yours, reciprocate the action by crossing your feet over his back, locking the both of you together. You’re babbling at this point, mewling that you’re so fucking close, please Simon, don’t stop, need it, need you.

He can’t even manage the strength to tease you, mutter playful words to you when he’s been gritting his teeth together in a weak attempt not to paint your walls white. So, his thumb finds your clit and makes your vision blur white instead, practically begging you to orgasm with encouraging praises.

Your body goes rigid, clamping narrowly around his cock as you finish, a thick ring of your arousal collecting around the base of his cock. It’s divine, all of it, your fucked out express, the sheen of sweat on your collar bones, the way you claw down his chest in ecstasy.

He’s steady through it, draws your overwhelming orgasm out as long as he can until your fingers are pressing to his hips for him to stop.

He will, just after he fucks his own cum into you.

You’re close to overstimulation and shedding tears when he doesn’t stop. He doesn’t quite want that, not yet at least, so he presses praises into your skin until you believe them, until you’re eager for him to make you two one.

Easy baby, I got you. I know, ‘ts too much isn’t it?

Jus’ a lil longer, yeah? Did s’well f’me, s’fuckin’ pretty stretched ‘round me.

Gon’ make you all mine, okay? My sweet girl now.

You finally croak back, nodding earnestly at him, “Always were.”

That pushes him right over the edge, burying himself to the hilt, so he can fill your drenched cunt, so warm and tight, with his expense. He has to bury his head in your neck, a beastly groan vibrating from his chest. The ropes are thick, balls tightening and thrumming with each emptying pump so much so that it leaks out of you.

He can barely stop himself from smashing you and going completely limp from the intensity. He kisses you instead, spends entirely too long mapping the shape of your lips that he grows a little chub in your walls when he should be cleaning the both of you up.

When he finally does pull out, you’re docile and tired, he has to carry you to the shower, clean your sweat-drenched and cum stained skin nice and pretty again, help your wobbling legs put on a fresh set of pajamas before he drapes you into your sheets again.

He crawls into the bed with you, but before he can snuggle under the blankets, you shake your head, pointing at your bedroom door.

“You gotta let pretty lady in.”

He chuckles, of course, he has to, he should’ve known without you having to tell him. Churro trots in as soon as he opens the door, following him into bed with you. He pulls you snug against his chest, banding his protective arms around you as Churro curls herself above your head on your pillow.

You smile sweetly at him when he stamps a kiss against your forehead and then against Churro’s.

“Knew you liked her.”

@lighthousebats @cococococ @sai-int @tessakate @starboykel @imrandomstuffsblog @your-internet-tenshi @glossy01 @orangegreensun @uriahs-barn @ye-olde-trash-panda @akkahelenaa @h0lydrag0ns @pukbadger @dawnnightshade666 @lizziesfirstwife @little-b33 @topaz125 @v1x3n @hadassery @afanofbeans @definitely-not-sammie @alexlove-you @dravenskye @hardpostdinosaur

[girl-of-many-fandoms]

Bumpy Ride

Pairing: John MacTavish x Reader

Summary: One exfil vehicle that's too small and one split decision to sit on his lap equals John's worst ride back to HQ.

Warnings: Forced proximity, strong language, sexual innuendo, gunfire, mature humor.

MASTERLIST

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Exfil Point Bravo 

The team bolted out of the compound, rounds snapping past them as Gaz skidded the battered tactical SUV into place like a man possessed.

"GO GO GO—I've got two minutes before this thing turns into a coffin!"

Price was already yanking open the passenger door and climbing into the front seat with a curse. "If you scratch this goddamn truck, Garrick—"

"Too late!" Gaz barked with a laugh.

Ghost shoved his hulking frame into the backseat, tactical vest catching on the doorframe. He growled something indecipherable under his breath and twisted sideways, trying to wedge his massive self in without flattening anyone.

She ran up next, panting, gear weighing her down, heat radiating from the firefight behind them. Then she saw the backseat.

"...There’s no way we’re all fitting in that."

Soap was already halfway in, squished between Ghost’s shoulder and the door. “Squeeze or bleed, lass!”

“You serious?” she barked, scanning the already jam-packed back. Ghost’s bulk was eating up two-thirds of the space, his knee brushing Soap’s as he exhaled heavily. Her options? Sit on Soap or Ghost. Neither seemed ideal. Both seemed like trouble.

She chose trouble with a Scottish accent.

With no room to hesitate, she dropped into Soap’s lap, her hips landing flush against his thighs, his vest scraping her side as she fought to pull the door closed.

“You tryna kill me?” Soap choked, his hands flailing before finding unfortunate purchase on her hips to stabilize her. “You’re in full gear!”

“Oh please,” she smirked over her shoulder. “Acting like this isn’t a dream come true.”

“Had a lot of dreams, didn’t involve them—”

CRACK CRACK CRACK! Bullets smacked the rear panel. Ghost ducked slightly, one arm braced over the seat behind her, his voice gravel and annoyance.

“Gaz. Drive the fucking truck!”

Gaz peeled out, tires kicking dust. “I am driving—terrain’s just scenic!”

The moment they hit the first ditch, her ass bounced—hard—on Soap’s lap. He audibly groaned, not in pain.

“Oh fuckin’ hell,” he hissed, knuckles white on her sides. “We’re not gonna make it to base, not at this rate.

Ghost's deadpan broke through the chaos. “Could’ve sat on my lap, love. I don’t squirm like MacTavish.”

She grinned. “You don’t squirm, but I’d feel every gun you’re hiding.” 

Ghost snorted. “You’d feel a gun alright.”

Price didn’t even look back. “Don’t make me turn this truck around.”

Johnny threw his head back with a groan. “Why is this the hill I die on? Not bullets. Not landmines. Arse-first death by teammate.”

“Not my fault Gaz is treating the road like a goddamn skate park!” she shot back as another bump had her ass grinding down.

Gaz, laughing over the radio, added cheerfully, “You’re welcome!”

“YOU WANNA TRADE SEATS?!” Soap shouted toward the front.

Price sighed. “We’re less than ten klicks out. If I hear one more complaint, I’m cuffing you all together when we get back.”

“Think that’s Soap’s kink,” she murmured under her breath. Soap stiffened under her. “You gettin’ ideas, Sergeant?”

“You keep grinding like that and the ideas’ll turn into a problem.” Johnny gripped onto the waistband of her pants, grappling to steady her and restrain himself from losing his shit completely.

Another violent pothole, and Soap bit back a whimper.

Ghost leaned over just enough to be smug. “You alright there Johnny? Want me to hold her for a bit?”

Soap shoved his shoulder back, swearing.

“Oi! Knock it off back there,” Price snapped. “You’re worse than rookies.”

She chuckled, finally settling back against Soap’s chest, body rocking in rhythm with the brutal ride. “Tell me this isn’t the best exfil you’ve ever had.”

Soap grunted, mouth by her ear. “Ask me again when I’m not trying to hide a semi in front of the captain.”

Ghost just laughed.

<><><><><><><><><><><>

I had so much fun writing this, hope y'all enjoyed it.

[gloomwitchwrites]

Dog with No Teeth // Chapter Six

Simon "Ghost" Riley x Female Reader

Chapter Specific Warnings (MDNI): swearing, suggestive themes, medical examination

Word Count: 5.2k

Ghost brings you to the safe zone. You find out the meaning of reintegration.

Chapter Five // Chapter Seven

ao3 // main masterlist // dog with no teeth masterlist

“Oh, dove,” purrs Lieutenant Riley. “You’ll look bloody gorgeous choking on mine.”

Honey should be sticky—have a hint of sweetness. This is putrid and rotten, a foul thing that deserves to be discarded. It is regret. Entrapment and regret. Over and under and sliding between bone.

Housed within you are two warring voices. One rebukes the idea of you submitting to Ghost, to fall to your knees and present yourself in obedience. The other preens at the notion, knowing that you would look a gorgeous mess with a stuffed mouth and aching throat.

Lieutenant Riley’s words fuel an itch—a manifestation of a twitch in the tips of your fingers. It is all the realization you have before your flattened palm swings toward Lieutenant Riley’s face. Full comprehension comes like an exploding bullet. Ghost maintains eye contact and seizes your forearm, halting the slap in its tracks.

“Careful,” says Lieutenant Riley, keeping that sultry purr in his voice. “Or it’s a public punishment.”

The muted roar of the room widens, swallowing you into reality. Ghost’s hand shifts, easing its grip, guiding your arm back to your side. Sliding down, the tip of his index finger slowly traces a line along the underside, pausing at your palm before retreating. It’s a fleeting caress, but it sends a shiver through you.

“I’m done with this conversation,” you breathe, backing up, hands trembling slightly as you grasp the sides of the tray.

Retreat is rearing its head. This place is too bright, too loud, too much. Lieutenant Riley’s imposing figure doesn’t help. The way he looms over you, nearly trapping you against the counter, is cage-like.

Lieutenant Riley hardly blinks. Hardly breathes. He is a statue, and that intensity pins you to the spot. “Tell me you’ll stay away from him.”

Tooth and claw and bite.

Gentle doe. Submissive dog. Survival instinct.

Two sides. And the venom wins.

“Jealousy isn’t an attractive quality,” you reply sharply, staring right back.

Ghost is unmoved by your irritation. “Say it,” he growls, and there is so much authority in his voice it gives you pause.

Lieutenant Riley is a stranger. Sergeant Noah Fields is a stranger. Everyone in this room is a stranger. This place is strange. You’ve been wedged into a tight space with little room to turn and face both walls. You’re stuck forward, propelled toward a choice you didn’t make for yourself.

“Fine,” you mutter, the agreement nearly an exasperation. “Fine.”

Better to relent, to ease Ghost’s fears if it gets you to your breakfast faster, to end this conversation. Not that your stomach is growling anymore. Even that has abandoned you.

“If it makes you happy, Lieutenant,” you sigh. “I won’t speak to him.”

“No. You won’t go near him,” corrects Ghost.

“Can I eat now?” you ask, irritation clear in your tone.

“Say it.”

You exhale heavily, rolling your eyes. “I don’t understand you,” you whisper as a young man wearing black fatigues walks past. “Or this possessiveness. I don’t belong to you, Lieutenant.”

Ghost pushes in, and you lean back to maintain eye contact. “You’re under my care and protection. What I say goes.”

“I am not your property.”

His response is a bolt of lightning. “On base, you are.”

On base, you are.

You don’t belong to me.

Maddening. Infuriating. You specifically asked Ghost if the mandate made you his, and he told you no. Now here he is, marking you as a piece of property as if it’s perfectly okay and not a slap in the face.

No choices. No options. You’re nothing more than a penned animal. Worse, actually. You’re the mud in the pen that’s more shit than wet earth. The urge to lash out rises, snapping and hissing like a rattlesnake. You want to strike him, to kick and scream and shriek like a banshee. Burn it all down. Throw a fucking fit.

“Well, your property wants to eat her fucking breakfast.” You say it slowly, adding all your seething anger. “Does she have your permission?”

Lieutenant Riley is silent a long moment, that piercing whiskey-brown gaze of his slicing right through to your marrow. It’s tactical. On purpose. The silence widens and it only squashes whatever resistance you’ve mustered up. Your question dangles in the air—a tempting bite. When you think he won’t speak—that Ghost will say nothing, give no ground—he inclines his head, clearly indicating that you’re finally allowed to sit down, and fucking eat something.

“Great,” you say through clenched teeth.

With hands grasping the sides of the black tray, you lift, turning toward all the tables in the communal dining hall. The overwhelming sensation from earlier reappears to wrap itself around you, hugging you in a vice. A fleeing rabbit stalked by prey. All those eyes on you. Mouths moving, whispering to each other, urging you to drop your tray and fucking bolt. Your vision narrows to a tunnel, and your chest heaves, each inhalation sharp and biting.

Lieutenant Riley’s hand finds your lower back. It flattens. Presses to urge you forward. His touch is enough of an anchor to ground you, to slow some of the racing adrenaline. Your feet are phantoms, moving only at his beckoning touch. Ghost could lead you right out the main doors and back to the cabin and you’d go without hesitation. Like cattle, you are herded, forced into a seat that is isolated and away from everyone. No one even glances in your direction.

Ghost lingers but he doesn’t sit.

“Are you not staying?” you ask, suddenly nervous.

This man might annoy the fuck out of you but not having him around in a room full of strangers is worse.

“I’m staying,” he affirms.

You gesture at the empty seat across from you. “But you’re not sitting?”

“No.”

With that one word—no—Lieutenant Riley disappears. Walks away. Leaves you utterly alone. You sit, stunned, fork clenched in your fist as you attempt to figure out where he’s gone. Scanning the room reveals nothing. He is shadow, melting in until you can’t tell the difference between faces. Turning away from the lingering looks, you focus on the food in front of you.

Fork to plate to mouth to plate again.

Repeat. Repeat. Repeat.

Fork. Plate. Mouth. Plate.

Breakfast is all silence. It is you sitting alone at a table while everyone watches but refuses to approach. It’s fucking isolating—almost embarrassing. It’s like you’re a child again, separated from your friends during lunch for misbehaving. And you still sense Ghost. You know he’s nearby, lurking, but just out of sight. There are brief flickers. Fleeting glimpses. You’ll glance up, catch sight of his balaclava. Then he’ll return to the crowd like he was never there at all. But the man doesn’t come sit with you, doesn’t come to tamper with your mood or to aggressively flirt and piss you off. Lieutenant Riley removes himself entirely.

And you?

You’re a machine. Feeding yourself even though you taste nothing. It’s all instinct now. Fueling your body instead of enjoying what’s in front of you.

Sucking your fork clean of syrup, you rest it on your plate, dabbing at your lips with a napkin.

“Left you here by yourself?”

The familiar, Scottish accent draws your gaze upward. Soap stands next to the table, arms crossed over his chest, one eyebrow slightly arched with amused concern.

“I’m sorry?” you choke, startled.

“Lt.”

Lt. Lieutenant. Ghost.

You shrug. “He’s around,” you reply, giving the dining hall a once over.

Soap shrugs, a sheepish expression on his face. “Apologies for interrupting this morning.”

You almost spit out your water. “Nothing happened,” you say quickly, wiping away a dribble of liquid with the back of your hand.

Soap’s lips purse slightly. “Wouldn’t let me join. He always lets me join.”

“He—what?”

“Means he likes you.”

“Sergeant,” you squeak, a little wave of dizziness rising.

Soap opens his mouth, prepared to continue, but Lieutenant Riley appears on your other side as if he snapped into existence, summoned by the fact that you dared speak his name without him around.

“Johnny,” he grumbles.

Soap beams, clearly unaffected by Ghost’s gruff tone. “Came to find you. Thought you’d be with your woman.”

“I’m not his woman,” you growl.

Soap keeps talking. “Convoy’s ready. Price wants to head out soon. Go home.”

Lieutenant Riley nods, his attention turning on you. “Finished?”

“Yes?” you answer, and you have no idea why it comes out a question.

Behind the balaclava, his eyebrows rise slightly. “Not enough?” He sounds genuinely surprised.

“It was,” you quickly correct, standing. “Where do I put this?” You gesture at your tray.

Ghost answers by picking it up and walking away. You follow him, Soap snorting with amusement as you try to keep up with Lieutenant Riley’s large strides.

“I can do that,” you say, nearly catching up to him.

All you hear is a muted grunt, and then Ghost is handing the tray off to the dishwashers at the far end of the buffet line. He turns abruptly, almost knocking you down.

“Ready?” he asks.

No. No, of course not. What the fuck kind of question is that?

“Would it matter?” you breathe, defeated.

“No,” he states plainly, because it doesn’t, and you know this. He knows this.

Your choice is obsolete, and autonomy only matters to you. No one else cares that you’ve been dragged away from your previous life, that you’re going to places unknown. They all appear unfazed. Lieutenant Riley certainly doesn’t seem to care. The “mandate” is a duty to him, and you should be thankful for it.

What a fucking honor.

“We should go,” says Ghost, voice gentle and soft like he’s trying to ease your worry.

The soothing nature of his tone fails to pacify. There is no calmness in your heart. Only defeat and anger.

He places his hand on your lower back again, drawing you away, escorting you toward the main doors. You press into his side, seeking shelter and comfort because it’s all you have. It’s not fair. It’s not right. As much as you loathe him, there is a kindness there that chips away at your shell, exposing the fracturing interior.

The crisp air stings your skin. You keep your gaze ahead, staying pace with Ghost and Soap as the three of you head toward the convoy.

“Ghost! Soap!”

You slow, and Ghost glances over his shoulder at you as the two men move ahead. Gaz approaches, but you’re not part of this group. It feels odd to stand beside Lieutenant Riley. You give a quick shake of your head at Ghost. He turns away.

They grasp hands in greeting, speaking in low voices. If they aren’t paying you any attention, can you slip away? How quickly would they lock this place down in search of you?

“Dove.” Lieutenant Riley’s gruff voice washes over you.

You close your eyes. Inhale. His warm hand slides over your neck to cup your cheek. As your eyelids flutter open, Ghost gently guides your face around to him. He’s standing so close, almost on top of you.

“You shouldn’t touch me like this,” you sigh, hating that you’re enjoying this.

“Why not?”

You lick your lips. “Haven’t earned it.”

The pad of his thumb brushes over your chin, traces the underside of your bottom lip. “You hate me,” murmurs Lieutenant Riley.

“I do,” you agree.

Ghost lowers his head, hovers like he’s waiting for a kiss. “In time, you won’t.”

His touch becomes a firm hold.

Ghost’s hand shifts to the back of your neck, squeezing, fingers lightly digging into your skin. It’s possessive—domineering. And you resist, pulling back just as Lieutenant Riley pulls.

“No, love,” he growls. “Behave.”

“Fuck you.”

Though he wears a balaclava, you know he’s smirking. You see it in the way the skin around his eyes wrinkle. “Think you’re cute?”

“I don’t belong to you.”

Ghost’s hand on your neck tightens even more, the fine hairs there catching in his grip, the roots stinging as they’re pulled. “You will,” he breathes. You smack at his arm but he’s immovable. “And now we’re leaving.”

With Ghost gripping the back of your neck, you’re half-walked, half-dragged to the convoy. This is the shit you hate.

“I can walk,” you growl, attempting to yank yourself from his grasp.

Lieutenant Riley says nothing as he brings you to a stop beside a Humvee. His hand on the back of your neck remains until he opens the back passenger door.

“Get in,” he nods.

This is a demand. No room for arguing.

As his hand falls away, you smack it, deliberately forcing Lieutenant Riley to draw back. You shoot him a death glare. “I’m sick of you touching me.”

“A lie,” he drawls. “Now, get in the vehicle.”

“No.”

“Get. In.”

You stand tall, shoulders back, spine straight. “Fuck. You.”

“More than happy to toss you in.”

“You—fuck.” You glance away, unable to stay strong.

Lieutenant Riley rests his arm against the side of the Humvee. “You worried?”

“Of course I’m fucking worried, Lieutenant.”

“Just asking,” he mutters.

“Why can’t you take me home?” you breathe.

“The man—”

“The fucking mandate. Yes. I know.” You shake your head. “But that’s not an answer.”

“It is,” insists Ghost.

“Not to me,” you gasp, almost choking on a burst of hysterical laughter. “Do you even understand how I feel right now?”

Lieutenant Riley remains silent.

“Fine. Fucking fine,” you mutter, sliding into the Humvee, moving to the far side to give yourself space.

Ghost casually glances over his shoulder before sliding in after you, shutting the door. The front driver and passenger doors open, two soldiers hopping in. You discreetly check their arms. While the United Nations flag is the same, the two country flags are different from the two that drove the Humvee on your way to base.

“Ready to head home, Lieutenant?” asks the driver as the Humvee roars to life.

Ghost nods. “Are you?”

Shifting gears, he answers. “Ready to see my wife. Hug my kids.”

The Humvee rolls forward.

“How old is your youngest?”

“She’s three now.”

“You’ll see them soon,” replies Ghost.

You keep your gaze averted, not wanting to engage in conversation with any of them. It only makes you yearn for home, for your hammock and your books.

As if sensing your discomfort, Ghost leaves you to your solitude. Space is another matter. He spreads out, stretching his legs, and you find yourself pressing yourself against the Humvee door to regain some of that bubble. Distance and quiet is what you crave, to be alone with your thoughts, to fucking brood and be left alone.

Staring out the window, you watch the base become a dark spot in the distance before disappearing entirely. It is open road and overcast skies. Like yesterday, the roads are astoundingly clear and uncongested. Weathering has created holes and cracks, the tarmac sometimes raised or sunken in some areas where the ground has shifted. A few times, the convoy slows, navigating around craters that could easily swallow a vehicle. It’s still strange how the roads themselves aren’t exactly maintained yet are somehow completely clear of cars. Those you do see are pushed off into the medians or ditch, allowing for a clear path.

A question blooms.

You begin to lean toward Lieutenant Riley, the words ready to leave your tongue. His head turns as if sensing your eagerness to ask him a question. Gazes meet. Pupils dilate. Ghost matches your movement, sliding closer to you.

Sudden panic rises.

You think better of it, twisting away from him at the last second to deliberately stare out the window. From your peripheral, Ghost shifts to the right, scooting closer to you. He knows you wanted to say something, and he’s trying to draw your attention back to him.

Fuck.

Fuck fuck fuck.

The overcast skies dissipate—becomes sunny. The convoy halts briefly to refuel from the tanker. You’re able to stretch your legs, to walk a bit, to enjoy the sun against your skin. Ghost keeps a respectful distance, but you feel his gaze with every step. The respite is brief, a flicker of relief before you’re back in the stuffy Humvee. It’s more road. More silence. At some point you drift off, jerking awake when the Humvee hits a deep dip in the road.

“We’re five miles out, Lieutenant,” says the driver.

“Use the long-range radio.”

He presses a few buttons on a panel embedded in the front dash. He brings the microphone to his mouth. “Eagle this is Bravo. Over.”

He pauses. The vehicle is silent.

“Again,” instructs Ghost.

“Eagle this is Bravo. Over.”

A few seconds, then the radio crackles.

“Bravo this is Eagle.”

“Convoy returning.”

“Heard. Convoy returning. Welcome home, Bravo.”

All three men sigh, their relief palpable. You do not share in their joy. A creeping dread settles in, starting in your stomach, unspooling to claim chest and lung and limb.

“You’re nervous,” murmurs Ghost, and you nearly jump at how close his voice is.

You turn abruptly, finding him in your space. “Why would you think that?” you whisper.

Lieutenant Riley nods downward toward your lap. You follow that nod, and find your hands clenched into fists, the skin taut over the bone from tension. Shaking out your hands, you stretch your fingers to ease the ache.

The convoy crests a hill, and whatever snarky reply you were going to say evaporates.

As the vehicles ahead slow, so does the Humvee as the convoy reaches a checkpoint. It’s not a makeshift box with a gate. The structure consists of two large guard towers connected by a wide overhang that arches over the road. The sides extend outward into a solid stone wall before giving way to high electrical fencing. Machine guns face the road, aimed at some point in the distance. You expect the convoy to come to a stop, but it only creeps through. Several men on the ground wave, but it’s fleeting, and then you’re back on the open road again.

But it’s not empty. There is no barren landscape or desolation. On either side are vast fields full of growing food. People work, moving along the rows, crouched or bent over. Harvesters roll through another.

The world is supposed to be broken. Shattered. But from your current viewpoint, humanity appears to be thriving. Are any of the things you know the truth? Is it all a lie?

“Didn’t expect this?”

This time, Ghost’s voice doesn’t startle you. You lean toward him, so many questions blooming, eagerly wanting to burst forth.

“How?” you whisper, voice breaking slightly. “How is this possible?”

“Not what you thought?”

“No.”

Fields give way to a few low buildings and pastures full of animals only to return to fields again. Through the windshield, a sharp forms. A wall. Not makeshift. Not like the one your little community built. This is a true barrier. This is a city.

“Ghost,” you whisper, as the convoy breaks away from the main road, heading right along the exterior wall. You press your face to the glass, looking upward. “What is this place?”

“The safe zone. Home,” he answers.

You draw back from the window. “But—”

“You’re surprised?”

“Yes,” you hiss.

“You know nothing about the safe zones?”

“Of course I don’t. I thought we already established this.”

“What do you know?”

You lick your lips, not wanting to admit how little you do.

“This is the farthest I’ve been from home since everything…collapsed.”

Lieutenant Riley’s expression is passive. “There’s time to talk about this later.”

“Don’t dismiss me.”

“I’m not,” he growls. “But this conversation deserves space. I can’t give you my full attention right now.” Ghost glances away from you, gazing out the windshield. “When we stop, follow my lead.” He returns his attention to you. “Do not speak to anyone. Do not stop for anything. Stay at my side until I hand you off.”

“For processing?” you deadpan.

“Tell me you understand.”

“I understand,” you snap.

What’s the point in fighting? You can’t go back. You can only go forward.

Ghost has his door open the moment the convoy stops. Sliding out, he turns and gestures at you in a “come here” motion with his hand. You shimmy across the bench seat. As you swing your legs to hop out, Ghost grasps your waist and lifts you right out of the Humvee. The move is so startling that your hands grasp his shoulders to steady yourself.

Heat rushes to your cheeks. Ghost gives you a flirty wink. Someone whistles in appreciation.

You promptly drop your hands. “You did that on purpose,” you mutter.

“I did.”

You scoff and roll your eyes. Lieutenant Riley ignores your irritation, placing his hand on your lower back. “Follow me.”

The ground beneath your feet is paved, and where it isn’t is mud, the grass either dead or worn away. Soldiers move about, many in all black, faces covered. They move amongst the buildings and tents, their gazes raking over you but their voices silent. But looming over everything is that wall. It’s not monstrous yet it’s tall enough that you have to look up at a sharp angle to see the top.

Ghost tugs you along, guiding you toward a plain building in a faded army-green. The two of you pass under a partially enclosed awning, but Ghost doesn’t go to open the door. Another sharp tug, and you’re pressed up against the tarp-like fabric of the awning.

“When we pass through that door, I won’t be able to come with you?”

He presses in, enclosing the space until it feels like it’s just the two of you in the world.

“What do you mean?”

“You have to go alone.”

“What the fuck are you talking about?” you ask, voice rising slightly. “All this and now you’re going to abandon me?”

Ghost’s brow softens, his gaze shifting to a sultry look. “Thought you hated me?”

“This is not the time, Lieutenant.”

His gaze softens even further, rushing toward a concern that you want to wish away. There is no reason for this affection.

Grasping the sides your face, Ghost cradles your head in his hands. “You’ll be fine. But you promise me you’ll do as your told behind that door. Don’t resist.”

Tears start to form. “What’s going to happen to me in there?”

“Nothing bad,” he murmurs. “Promise.”

“But you can’t tell me?”

“You’ll hate me more if I do.”

You shake your head, hands grasping Ghost’s muscled arms. “No,” you whisper. “Just take me home. Please.”

“I’m sorry, dove,” he replies softly, brushing a single tear with his thumb.

He pops that thumb into his mouth, swallowing your tear.

You shove at him even as he grabs your elbow, guiding you to the door, entering a code in the keypad. The buzzer sounds. The door clicks open.

“No.”

You dig your feet in but Ghost is so much stronger.

There’s a bite of where your heels catch—then a stumble. You’re thrust into a small, enclosed atrium, no larger than a bathroom. A plain, grey door leads to an unknown place while a balding man sits at a desk behind a glass panel.

Caged. A trapped animal.

“Have an outsider for reintegration.”

Ghost’s voice is completely detached, like you mean nothing to him, as if he wasn’t between your legs just this morning, kissing you like he wanted to devour you.

The man behind the desk nods, reaching off to the side, pressing a button. “Reintegration. Female,” he says flatly.

Ghost tugs you a little closer, his gaze serious and unreadable. You count the seconds, each passing tick bringing with it a growing fear. Lieutenant Riley is your safety net even if he’s your enemy.

The grey door opens, and a blonde woman with a severe bun steps through. She wears a white coat, and a stethoscope hangs around her neck. Her smile is nice. Happy. No maliciousness lurks beneath.

You turn to Ghost, eyes widening.

“You’ll be fine,” he insists with a whisper.

I don’t lie.

You give a slight shake of your head. Ghost grasps your hand, squeezing it in reassurance. “I’ll see you on the other side.”

He releases your hand. Steps back. There’s a softness in his gaze that you recognize. Ghost knows he’s ripped you away from everything. It’s a silent apology.

“Through here, dear,” the woman urges.

You step toward her, and she moves to the side to allow you to pass. Every step is shaky, but you go, looking back over your shoulder, looking at Lieutenant Riley until the door shuts. With it’s closing comes a coldness. A numbness that settles into your limbs.

“I’m Doctor Roe.” She extends her hand and you take it, giving you name in turn. “It’s lovely to meet you.” She gestures ahead. “We’ll go down this hall, show you where you’ll stay the next five days.”

“Five days?” you ask, voice cracking.

“Did Lieutenant Riley not tell you about quarantine?” Dr. Roe sounds genuinely surprised.

How does she know Lieutenant Riley?

You shake your head. “He didn’t tell me anything.”

Dr. Roe inclines her head, her mouth forming a small frown. “That’s unfortunate. But you don’t have anything to fear.” That frown melts away. “It’s standard procedure. We don’t want to release you into the general population if you’re carrying something.”

“Wouldn’t I have exposed the soldiers?”

“Yes, but they’re fully vaccinated. They’re also tested more often, especially those that go beyond the exterior checkpoint. Stricter requirements.”

The two of you pass by several doors. All of them shut.

“So I’m locked in a room for five days?”

“Oh, no,” she laughs, waving her hand in front of her. “Nothing like that. It’s just where you’re staying. You’ll be pulled periodically. Once the five days are up and you receive a clear bill of health, you’ll meet with someone to talk about your transition to life behind the wall.”

She comes to a stop at the second to last door. There is no lock, no keypad, and at first you think it odd. But where would someone like you go? You wouldn’t get far even if you tried.

The room is small but spacious with a private bathroom and no visible cameras. There’s a queen bed shoved against the wall, a small kitchenette, a lounge chair with a spare bookshelf.

“It’s not much,” Dr. Roe sighs. “But it’s something.”

“I’m a science experiment,” you mutter.

“It does seem like that, doesn’t it? I’ve been asking for more activities to put on the bookshelves, but do they send me anything? No.”

She’s making conversation like this is all completely normal.

“It’s fine. I’ll be fine.”

“You’ll get three meals a day. And snacks.”

“Lovely,” you mutter, poking your head into the bathroom.

Dr. Roe clasps her hands in front of her. “I’ll leave you for now.”

You only nod, because there is little you want to say. When the door shuts and you’re left in silence, you sink to the floor, curling in on yourself. Tears come, and you cannot contain them. They fall and go dry and then you choke.

When someone finally comes to fetch you, it’s another doctor accompanied by a security guard. Their presence is a silent instruction. Comply, or be dealt with. Instead of fighting it, you hesitantly go along, Lieutenant Riley’s words repeating in your head. You’re taken for a full physical with a blood draw. The next day are vaccinations. Then a dental exam. Then a psych eval. You’re poked and prodded and questioned, but the worst comes last.

“Is this necessary?” you ask, staring at the vaginal speculum.

Dr. Roe replies while looking at her chart. “It’s just to ensure everything looks good. We’ll do a swab, check for any abnormalities and sexually transmitted diseases.”

The door opens, the security guard entering the room. He shuts the door, standing just inside like he’s supposed to be there.

“I don’t want to.”

You sound pathetic. Weak.

Dr. Roe side-eyes the guard. “Can you wait outside. Please.”

“Protocol—”

“I’m aware,” she interjects. “Wait outside.”

“I’ll have to file a report.”

“Then file a report.”

He leaves with a grumble. “I’m so sorry,” she sighs. “This entire process isn’t pleasant, and they certainly don’t make it easy.” She settles on her stool. “You had an examination like this before, yes?”

You nod.

“It’s the same thing,” she says with sweet reassurance. “I won’t do anything different. I’ll talk you through everything I’m doing. Okay?”

“Okay.”

It takes all of three minutes. And then it’s two days of silence. Just you in your room with your meals brought to you.

“Congratulations!” You sit up in bed as Dr. Roe bursts through the door. “You’re clear!”

“I’m—oh.” Standing just inside the doorway is Lieutenant Riley. “I’m free to go?”

“Yes,” replies Ghost just as Dr. Roe says “no.”

She shoots him a look. “You’re free to go from here,” she corrects. “But Lieutenant Riley is going to escort you to the Commander.”

“To the who?” you ask, looking toward Ghost for guidance.

“We’ll talk on the walk,” he says firmly.

Dr. Roe’s smile doesn’t faulter. She’s a beaming ball of energy as the three of you return to the grey door you entered from.

“Good luck,” she whispers, waving.

You step outside and into the dark.

“It’s the middle of the fucking night,” you state, turning on him.

“It’s exactly…” Ghost checks his watch. “0300 hours.”

With an annoyed growl, you punch his chest. “Fuck! Why are you so solid?”

“You listened to me, dove,” he says, voice full of affection.

“It was five fucking days! Five!” You punch him again and wince. “You could have warned me!”

“You’d bolt.”

“I might have,” you admit. “But that is not the point.���

“Still hate me?” he asks, a little croon in his question.

You ignore him. “And who is this ‘commander?’” You make quotation marks with your fingers. “Is he the man in charge?”

“No,” replies Ghost, that sweetness in his tone evaporating.

“Then who is he?”

“An arrogant wanker with a title,” he mutters.

Oh. This is interesting. “Since you hate him, does that mean he’s on my side?” It’s a tease. A poke.

“If you find something redeemable about Commander Graves, keep it to yourself.”

You hold up your hands in a placating gesture. “Heard, Lieutenant.”

As your hands drop, Ghost grasps them, pulling you against his hard body. His shoulders hunch forward, creating an intimate barrier from the outside world. It’s just the two of you beneath the awning, obscured by the flapping tarp.

“What comes next?” you ask, energy deflating slightly.

“I take you to Graves. You’ll talk. Then you go to your new home.”

“My home?”

“Yes.”

“Is that with you?”

Ghost lowers his head, the fabric of the balaclava brushing against your cheek. “It can be.”

“That’s not what I want,” you breathe.

“Stop lying to yourself, dove.”

“You don’t know me,” you murmur. “This morning meant nothing.”

Ghost grasps the back of your neck, cradles your cheek. The balaclava presses against your lips. You feel the outline of his mouth beneath.

“You’ll want me,” he states with such confidence you almost believe him. “In time, you’ll want me.”

[penny-anna]

Leia: explain to me how you got injured

Luke, not wanting to explain that he convinced Wedge to shoot real live blaster bolts at him to see if he could deflect them with his lightsaber (he got most of them):

Luke: surprise ambush

Leia: at 0400 hours last night? On Home One? Localised entirely to the pilot's sleeping quarters?

Luke: yeah I thought it was weird too

[mercvry-glow]

In the cool blue

parings. andrew "pope" cody x reader

summary. while staying at the cody house, a small group of rivals takes you, j and nicky hostage while the other are out. pope helps you in the after math.

warnings. based off of season two late episode six/early seven (so spoilers but also eh), reader is at the house with j and nicky when javi shows up, assault, drowning, gun mentions, reader and j get beat tf up, pope is actually pretty chill in this he's a softie today, established relationship, angst and hurt/comfort, general animal kingdom stuff, let me know if there's anything else!

notes. this is now my longest fic 😭 idk what inspired me to get this out but I really hope y'all enjoy bc this is a doozy and my current magnum opus. as always any and all feedback is appreciated!

wc. 5700+

It was supposed to be a quiet night.

You were stretched out on a lounge chair by Smurf’s pool, your freshly painted toes resting on the edge, a silk robe sliding off your sun-warmed skin. The water glowed that dreamy blue under the patio lights, casting ripples of light across your legs.

J and Nicky were inside, supposedly studying—though judging by how quiet it’d been for the past hour, you figured they were either making out or asleep, but with Nicky banging Craig you didn’t know. Either way, it meant you had the place to yourself. For once, things felt… safe. Even with Pope gone, running one of those jobs he never gave you the full story on.

You liked it better that way.

Until you heard the gravel shift.

At first, you thought it was just the wind. But then came the unmistakable slam of feet on the driveway. Then another. Then voices—low, quick, male.

You sat up.

The voices weren’t familiar. They didn’t carry like Deran or Craig’s. They were sharper. Harder.

You turned, just in time to see movement at the side gate. Four shadows. One of them kicked it open without hesitation.

Your blood ran cold.

You were moving before you even realized it, sandals forgotten by the chair, robe trailing behind you as you bolted across the backyard and slipped inside through the back slider, locking it instinctively—too late.

Before you could even breathe, a glass behind you shattered.

You screamed—just a little, more of a gasp—and darted down the hall, barefoot on tile, adrenaline flooding your veins.

You ducked into the nearest hallway closet, pulling the door shut as softly as you could, heart pounding so loud you swore they could hear it from the kitchen.

Then came the noise.

Boots stomping on tile. Furniture dragging. A bottle shattering.

You pressed a hand over your mouth, trying to hold in a whimper.

“Where is it?” one of the men barked.

“Check the freezer! Smurf used to keep cash in the damn freezer,” another snapped.

Cabinet doors slammed open. A chair was kicked over. Something heavy crashed to the floor and shattered. They were tearing the place apart like they knew something was here—and they wanted it now.

You didn’t dare peek. You couldn’t even cry. You just stayed curled up in the dark, wedged between winter coats and some old duffel bags, praying your knees wouldn’t give out before it was over.

You weren’t cut out for this. You weren’t a Cody. You weren’t like Pope.

You were just the girl he liked to keep close.

And right now, you were alone.

You didn’t even know how long you’d been in the closet.

Seconds? Minutes? It all blurred. Your muscles were locked, knees tucked to your chest, the smell of mothballs and old leather coats clinging to you as loud crashes and shouted curses continued to fill the house.

They were everywhere—kitchen drawers being yanked out, bedroom doors thrown open. You heard the crack of something heavy hitting the wall, then the dull thud of furniture being flipped.

Your fingers gripped the hem of your robe, knuckles white.

“Nothing’s here!” one of them yelled.

Another guy laughed, a low, mean sound. “Bullshit. This is Smurf’s place. There’s always something here.”

They were getting closer.

The voices grew louder. Clearer. Footsteps pounding down the hallway—your hallway. You squeezed your eyes shut.

And then they stopped.

Right outside the closet.

Your breath caught in your throat.

You heard someone mumble something under their breath, and then—

Click.

The door handle shifted.

You barely had time to suck in a gasp before the door was yanked open, the bright hallway light flooding the tiny space. You squinted up at a man with a shaved head, a leather jacket, and a small scar across his cheek. He froze when he saw you—half crouched in the back of the closet like a deer caught in headlights, robe pulled tight across your chest, cheeks streaked with silent tears.

His eyes widened, and for a split second, you thought maybe he’d just back off.

But then he smirked.

“Well, well,” he said, voice low and oily. “What do we have here?”

You couldn’t move. Couldn’t speak.

He grabbed your arm, hard, yanking you up to your feet like you weighed nothing. You stumbled, your bare feet skidding on the hardwood.

“Thought this place was empty,” he muttered, almost to himself, eyes raking over you like he was trying to figure out if you were worth more than whatever cash they’d been looking for.

You tried to wrestle yourself back into the closet wall, like maybe you could disappear. But he faster, calloused fingers wrapping around your wrist like a vise once again.

“Let go of me!” you gasped, but it barely came out.

He yanked you to your feet with zero care, dragging you forward, your bare toes sliding on the hallway floor. You fought him, pulling back with what little strength you had, but his grip only tightened.

“Don’t make this harder, princess,” he snapped, dragging you through the house as drawers hung open, broken glass crunched underfoot, and the stink of beer and sweat filled the air.

“I didn’t see anything—I swear—” you tried, breath shaking.

“Bet you know where the money is, though,” he shot back.

“I don’t!”

He ignored you, hauling you through the busted slider door and out into the cool night air. Your robe flared in the wind, and you blinked against the patio lights still glowing around the pool. Just minutes ago, you’d been lying there, peaceful, content—now you were barefoot, bleeding from your heels, and being dragged across the stone like some kind of prize.

The others were outside now too. Three men, scattered across the yard, tossing things from the poolside storage chest, upending flowerpots, one of them even kicking at the filter cover.

“She was hiding inside,” your captor called out, shoving you forward a few steps. You stumbled, caught yourself just before you hit the edge of the pool.

“She know where it is?” one asked, barely glancing up.

“She will.”

You wrapped your arms around yourself, heart thundering so loud you swore it echoed off the water.

One of them walked up to you slowly—taller, older, colder-looking. His boots stopped just short of your bare toes.

“You got about ten seconds to tell us where Smurf keeps her stash,” he said. Not yelling. Just matter-of-fact. Like he wasn’t asking—he was waiting.

“I don’t know,” you whispered.

Wrong answer.

The one who’d dragged you out stepped behind you, grabbing your arms tight and jerking you back against him. The edge of the pool was at your toes now. You felt the chill of the water in front of you, the way your balance shifted just slightly.

“Think again,” the tall one said.

Tears burned in your eyes, but you blinked them back. 

Someone would come. 

You twisted in his grip, heels slipping on the wet tile, arms aching from how tightly he held you.

“Please—please, I don’t know anything!” you gasped, trying to plant your feet, but he kept pushing you closer to the pool’s edge.

The taller guy just stared, arms crossed, expression unreadable.

“I swear to God, I don’t—Smurf doesn’t tell me anything! I just—I’m just Pope’s girlfriend!”

“Which means you know something,” the one holding you growled, yanking your arms up hard enough to make your shoulders burn.

“I don’t!” you cried out, voice cracking as panic bubbled up into your throat. “I don’t even live here—I didn’t even want to be here, I just—they told me to hang out! I was by the pool!”

“Then you shouldn’t have been hiding like a little rat,” the man sneered into your ear.

Your breath caught. “I was scared,” you whispered. “You broke the door down—I thought you were here to kill someone.”

Another guy—shaggy hair, wide eyes like he was hopped up on something—laughed darkly from the side of the yard. “Might still happen, sweetheart, if you don’t start talking.”

“I don’t know!” You squirmed in the first guy’s grip, finally throwing your elbow back into his ribs. It wasn’t much, but it caught him by surprise and he grunted, stumbling just a step.

You broke free for half a second—just long enough to bolt toward the other side of the pool.

But the tall one was fast. He grabbed a fistful of your robe, yanked you back so hard your legs gave out.

You hit the ground on your knees, palms scraped raw from the stone. Before you could move, a boot shoved your shoulder, forcing you to stay down.

“Try that again, and I’ll throw you in face first,” he warned.

Tears spilled hot and fast down your cheeks now. You shook your head, voice high and broken. “Please—I’m not lying—I swear to God, please just let me go! I didn’t do anything!”

No one answered. The only sound was the water lapping gently behind you, and the soft clink of something metal being tossed into the grass.

They weren’t hearing you.

They didn’t care.

And Pope… Pope wasn’t here to fix it.

You curled in on yourself, trembling. You’d never been this scared in your life. And if they decided to stop being patient?

You didn’t know what would happen next.

Your wrists were burning.

The zip ties they had grabbed bit into your skin as one of them yanked your arms behind your back, cinching them so tight you cried out. “Shut up,” he muttered, like your fear was an inconvenience.

The others had gone quiet. Focused.

The tall one paced near the pool, agitated, eyes scanning the yard like he was waiting for something to appear. The guy who tied you up shoved you down roughly back onto a lounger, rope around your ankles now too. You kicked, once, but it only earned you another curse and a warning glare.

You were helpless.

And then… movement.

From the corner of your eye, past the broken slider door and toward the far patio table, you saw J—slow, careful, almost crawling—edging toward the backpack he’d left out there earlier. It was half-hidden under a chair, just slouched enough that no one had noticed it yet.

But you knew what was inside.

His gun.

Your eyes went wide, lips parting in a silent gasp as you watched him stretch a hand toward the strap, his body low, fingers just brushing the zipper. He was so close—

A shout cracked through the night like a whip.

J didn’t freeze.

One of the guys—shaggy hair, twitchy—was already rushed toward him, tackling him towards the pool. J tried to dive away, but the man cracked him across his ribs, sending him sprawling across the stone with a sharp grunt and into a chair.

“Don’t!” you screamed from the lounger, struggling against the ropes. “Stop it! He’s just a kid!”

“Yeah?” the tall one snapped, stalking toward J now with ice in his voice. “Then he should’ve stayed hidden.”

The man in the brown jacket went to grab some leftover rope as two of his men continued to beat up J. They ignored your cries, focused on getting the teen who knew much more than you did. 

J coughed, curled on his side, one arm over his stomach. He looked at you—eyes wide, scared, like he was sorry. Sorry he got caught. Sorry he couldn’t stop this.

And all you could do was watch, wrists bound, robe soaked with your own tears, knees bleeding from the flagstone.

Inside the house, somewhere deep, a door creaked. Maybe Nicky was still hiding—maybe she’d heard it all.

God, you hoped she stayed hidden.

J was already coughing, barely able to get to his knees when they grabbed him again.

You tried to scream—tried to tell them to stop—but your voice was hoarse, useless against the chaos unfolding feet away from you.

The tall one grabbed J by the collar and hauled him. His shoes scraped across the tile, hands clawing at the man’s arm, but he was no match. Not like this. Not when he was winded and scared and outnumbered.

“J,” the tall one growled, voice calm in that cold, terrifying way, “who else is in the house man?”

“No one… just us,” J grunted, trying to gain his breath back.

Wrong answer.

“Go check the bedroom.” the man, who you assumed to be their leader, said as two of them left to go search the house again. 

The silence was heavy, water sloshing up onto the patio as J’s body stayed on the stone. You curled instinctively, like maybe if you didn’t watch it would stop, but the zip ties bit into your skin again and you could barely even sit up, and it kept you in the moment.

The tall man knelt at the pool’s edge, grabbed J by the back of the shirt, and held his head. “Smurf isn’t here?”

“Sh-She went to meet you…” 

You started sobbing quietly.

“She didn’t show.” 

They didn’t listen to whatever the teen had to say,  and two of them took J into the pool holding him up by his shoulders. 

“Hey, Jay. Where does Smurf keep her money?” the bald man asked, brandeshing his revolver like it was no big deal. J could barely get his answer out before they shoved him under. 

Your heart seized in your chest. “He’s not lying! He’s just a kid!”

They yanked him back up—J came out sputtering, gasping for air like a fish yanked from the deep, hair plastered to his face, chest heaving.

“One more time,” he asked, voice deadly quiet, “Where is Smurf’s money?”

J shook his head, water dripping down his face. “I swear to God—I don’t know—”

Back under.

The splash this time was smaller, like J didn’t even have the strength to fight it.

You were screaming now. Screaming and crying and twisting so hard your skin was raw from the rope, your knees scraped to hell from the concrete. “Please! He doesn’t know anything! Please don’t kill him!”

Finally—finally—they let him up again.

He floated toward the edge, wheezing, barely able to lift his head.

The tall one stood slowly, glanced over at you.

“You believe him?” he asked, wiping water from his hands.

You nodded frantically, eyes wide. “Yes! Yes, I believe him! I swear he’s telling the truth—there’s no money here! I-If it was, it'd be behind the dryer o-or shoe boxes!”

He didn’t move. Just stared at you for a long, uncomfortable second.

Then he said, “Maybe we’re asking the wrong person then.”

Your stomach dropped.

The twitchy guy who’d hit J first turned, stepping closer to you with a smirk, eyes running over your soaked robe, your trembling frame. They had dragged the poor boy out of the pool, beating him a bit more before turning their attention to you. 

“Nah,” he said. “She looks like a real good liar.”

And then the tall one said it—flat, casual, awful.

“Next time, we start with her.”

You couldn’t breathe. You couldn’t even think. 

Just cry.

You didn’t even realize how loud you were until the tall one’s eyes snapped back to you.

“Jesus Christ,” he muttered. “Shut her up.”

Your breath caught in your throat, panic curling deep in your gut.

“No—no, please, I didn’t—” You tried to scramble backward on the lounger, bound wrists twisting behind you, but you didn’t make it far. One of them—the twitchy one—grabbed your ankle and yanked you off the chair like it weighed nothing. You hit the stone patio with a painful thud, cheek scraping the ground, knees buckling beneath you.

“Get off me!” you cried, kicking, writhing in the ropes. “Don’t—don’t touch me!”

But he already had both hands on you, dragging you toward the pool.

“Guess she wants to take a swim,” he said darkly, like it was funny.

“No! Don’t—please, please don’t—!”

You thrashed harder, your robe getting twisted, legs scraping over the edge of the concrete just as your toes touched water. Cold. Too cold.

J was still wheezing, choking on his own blood, on the opposite side, watching in horror as they pulled you closer to the deep end.

“Leave her alone!” he tried to shout, voice wrecked from coughing.

The tall man didn’t even look back. “She wants to run her mouth, she can hold her breath.”

And then you were in the air—ropes tight, arms behind you, no way to break the fall—

Splash.

The cold hit you like a brick.

You sank instantly, robe ballooning around you, legs kicking uselessly as your wrists stayed locked behind you. You tried to swim, tried to surface, but the water kept dragging you down, twisting your body as you fought against it.

Your lungs burned.

You broke the surface once—gasped—only to be shoved back under again.

You didn’t know which of them did it. A hand on your head, a push between your shoulders. You couldn’t see. Everything was bubbles and blur and cold, cold, so cold.

Your scream was just a gurgle under the water.

You were going to drown.

And they didn’t care.

You came up again, coughing violently, gasping through sobs, and someone finally pulled you toward the steps, dumping you like trash onto the slick tile. You coughed, spit, choked on your own breath as you curled onto your side, sobbing uncontrollably.

“Now shut the hell up,” the tall one said, calm again, like none of it meant anything.

Behind him, J was still slumped on the ground, bleeding, soaked, and shaking.

And you—barefoot, half naked, shivering, and drenched—lay there helpless, your body shaking so hard it barely felt real.

You didn’t say another word.

The cold, sharp air felt like it might never leave your lungs. You shivered uncontrollably on the edge of the pool, the water dripping from your hair, your robe clinging to you like a wet sheet. The ropes around your wrists bit deeper into your skin, but you were too numb to even notice it anymore.

Then the door creaked.

You didn’t see her at first, just heard the shuffling footsteps—slow, dragging, someone stumbling.

“No one else in the house huh?,” the tall one said with a grin, eyes flicking over toward the door.

And then, like something out of a nightmare, Nicky was shoved into view.

Her face was swollen, bruised, blood streaking down her cheek from where someone had hit her. She was tied up too, wrists bound, her own robe in tatters from the way they'd manhandled her. She could barely stand, her knees buckling as they shoved her forward, her eyes red from crying, hair in disarray.

“No—no…” you whispered, horrified. Your voice cracked like glass under pressure.

She didn’t look at you, didn’t even try to. She was too dazed, too hurt, and when they shoved her to the ground next to you, she just crumpled, hands still tied, trying to curl into herself as much as possible.

“Nicky, please,” you begged, trying to push yourself toward her, but the ropes kept you in place, your body too weak to get far.

The tall one crouched down in front of J, who they had just pulled out of the pool one last time, was still trying to sit up from where they’d dumped him on the ground after you’d been thrown in the pool. He was shaking now—no longer the kid who thought he could hide a gun, no longer defiant. He was a ragdoll, eyes wide with fear yet dropping with exhaustion as he looked back and forth between you, Nicky, and the crew.

“Think I came all this way for twenty-five grand!?” the tall one said, eyes cold and calculating, smacking J in the face with the money you told them where to find. He drew another gun from his jeans, “Last goddamn time! Where’s the real money?!” The gun was aimed right on J’s face, locked and loaded and this guy wasn’t afraid to do it.

J’s lips parted. He didn’t say anything at first, and the silence was worse than anything else. “I told you I don’t know, I swear!” the blonde boy promised, desperate and pleading. They stepped on his bad leg, the one he hurt in the church hiest, as you and Nicky screamed in pain for him. 

Nicky flinched when one of the men reached down and grabbed her by the arm, lifting her up roughly. She winced but didn’t cry out, just staring at the ground, her whole body shaking.

“Get her out of here?” the tall one said again, voice flat.

J didn’t respond. His hands were shaking, too, but he wasn’t answering.

The crew didn’t wait.

One of them grabbed Nicky, taking her god knows where after she left your sight as the two men kept arguing over the fucking money. J’s scream was guttural, and he collapsed back to the stone, curling in on himself, chest heaving with pain.

You gasped, heart hammering in your chest as you fought against the ropes, but you couldn’t do anything.

J tried to speak, but it was barely a whisper. “Smurf’s got a storage unit on Freemont!”

The tall one stood back, his eyes cold, hands in his pockets. “What’s the number!?”

J said he didn’t know but would take them as long as they didn’t take Nicky, begging them to stop before pushing him into the pool one last time. His body arched, another groan escaping his throat as he struggled to swim, just as you had. He wasn’t able to defend himself, wasn’t able to do anything but take it.

You could feel the heat rising inside you, your stomach twisting in knots. You wanted to scream, to help him, to do something—but you were just tied up, helpless, watching him be broken apart in front of you.

They left after that, leaving you on the floor barely conscious. Taking Nicky and leaving J to drown in the pool his grandmother owned. You tried to crawl toward him, wrists bleeding from the ropes, but your vision went white, then black, then nothing at all.

--

The Jeep rolled to a slow stop in the driveway, headlights washing over the front of the Cody house. The gate was open. The porch light flickered. One of the patio chairs was overturned on its side like it had been thrown or tripped over. Something about the stillness was wrong. Off.

Pope stared at the front door—it hung open just a crack, too quiet, too deliberate. His knuckles tightened around the steering wheel as his instincts kicked in. He killed the engine and reached down beneath his seat, pulling out his gun. “Stay in the car.” 

Smurf started to follow, her hand already on the door handle, but Pope turned to look at her sharply, eyes already storm-dark. He told her to stay put.

She didn’t listen.

“I said stay in the car!” 

By the time he was creeping up the walkway, gun low and steady, Smurf was already on his heels. Her voice was low but sharp, cutting through the heavy silence—there was no way in hell she was waiting in the damn car while something had clearly gone sideways.

The moment they crossed the threshold of the house, the sight hit them first—The living room was a mess. Chairs overturned. A shattered lamp across the floor. One of the barstools broken in half, splinters fanned across the tile. Picture frames cracked and crooked on the walls.

Pope’s eyes swept the scene, methodical, calculating. Smurf stepped over a smashed photo of Baz and Julia, heart hammering in her chest as her gaze caught the trail—scuffs on the floor, a faint smear of blood. 

Pope moved room to room, clearing each space like the soldier he was, finger resting steady beside the trigger. The whole place was silent. Empty. But it wasn’t abandoned. Something had happened here. Something bad. And it wasn’t over yet.

Smurf made it to the back of the house first. She reached the sliding glass door and stopped cold.

Her breath hitched in her throat.

Outside, under the cold glow of the moon, two figures lay in the stillness. One, half in the pool—barely moving. The other crumpled on the concrete like a broken doll. She bolted, flinging the door open so hard it slammed against the wall. “Pope get out here!”

And he was right behind her, and when his eyes landed on the scene, he didn’t hesitate. J was slumped at the edge of the deep end, one arm hanging limply into the water, lips blue, chest barely rising as he coughed out water. His skin was soaked and pale. They ran for him, dropped to thier knees, and hauled the rest him out in swift motion, dragging him onto semi-dry ground

You were collapsed on the pavement not far from him, your wrists still bound, rope burns angry and raw. Your clothes were damp and ripped in some places. Your head lolled to one side, blood matting the edge of your hairline. You were breathing—but it was shallow, strained, like your body was hanging on by a thread.

Andrew dropped beside you, hands still as he checked your pulse, pressed his fingers against your clammy cheek. There was blood, but it wasn’t fresh. Whoever had hurt you. Tied you up. Left you here like garbage. His  jaw clenched as he tore the ropes free with his knife.  

His own heart was racing now—not out of fear, but rage.

Behind him, Smurf was crouched next to J, trying to keep him awake, her expression darkening with every slurred word that came out of the kid’s mouth. Something about a storage unit. Fremont. Smurf’s name. Nicky. And a man—Javi. He’d given them what they wanted. It still hadn’t been enough.

Pope was tense, but not from the sudden adrenaline rush. From fury. From failure. From the sight of you lying there like that, and J barely clinging on.

Smurf pulled off her coat and draped it over J’s  shoulders, and You flinched slightly as Pope tried to move you, a broken whimper escaping your lips, but you didn’t wake.

The air felt thicker now—like the violence hadn’t left yet. Like it was still sitting heavy over the house, waiting to be answered.

--

You woke to the low hum of an air conditioner and the faint scent of bleach and detergent—clean, sterile, unfamiliar. The world came back in pieces. The pressure in your skull. The aching pull of your muscles. The bruises blooming beneath your skin.

Your eyes opened slowly, adjusting to the dim light of a shaded living room. You were lying on a couch, a heavy blanket draped over your legs, the cushions dipping slightly beneath your weight. Your old clothes were gone. Replaced with a big, worn t-shirt that didn’t belong to you and a pair of sleep shorts. The fabric was soft. Smelled faintly like soap and someone else’s cologne.

Specifically the someone next to you.

You turned your head—barely—and saw Pope, sitting silent in the chair beside the couch, elbows on his knees, hands clasped in front of him. He hadn’t noticed you were awake yet. His eyes were fixed on the floor, brow furrowed, that same stormcloud expression carved into his face like stone.

There was a first-aid kit on the table nearby. A bloody rag beside it. A bottle of water, half-drunk. And your wrists—carefully wrapped in gauze. Clean. Tended to.

He’d done it. You could tell.

His head finally lifted. Eyes meeting yours.

He didn’t speak at first. Just stared. Not coldly—but intensely, like he was trying to figure out if you were real or maybe just what to say.

Your throat was dry. Scratchy. Every part of your body screamed in protest, but you managed a slow breath. You swallowed, trying to sit up slightly, and he was there in an instant—hand on the couch cushion near your arm, grounding you, steadying you without touching.

He didn’t ask how you felt. He didn’t need to.

The silence between you said enough.

You blinked at him, struggling to find the words. You remembered the pool. The ropes. The last thing you saw—J’s body going under, your own lungs burning, your screams swallowed by the water.

But you were here now.

 Alive.

Pope leaned back slightly, never taking his hazel eyes off of you. His voice, when he finally spoke, was low and gravely.

"You’re safe now."

It wasn’t a comfort. It was a promise.

And in the look he gave you, you knew—someone was going to pay for what happened, every second of it.

The silence lingered, stretching long between you. 

Heavy.

You kept your eyes on him, chest tight and aching in a way that had nothing to do with your injuries. There was this pressure building inside you—like your ribs were made of glass and every breath was another tap against the surface. The weight of it all pressed down until it cracked.

Your lip trembled before you could stop it. A choked breath caught in your throat. And then, without thinking—without asking—you pushed the blanket off and slid off the couch, barefoot and trembling, legs unsteady beneath you.

Pope moved instantly, as if to stop you from falling, but froze when he realized where you were going.

You stepped between his knees and just… folded.

Dropped down into his lap like gravity pulled you there, like it was the only place you could go. Your arms slid around his neck, fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt as you buried your face against his shoulder and finally let it go.

The sob came out broken and raw, like it had been hiding deep in your chest, waiting for the moment you were safe enough to let it out.

And Pope didn’t speak. 

He didn’t stiffen or push you off. He just wrapped his arms around you, slow and solid, one hand bracing your back, the other cradling the back of your head like you were made of something fragile. He held you like that was his only job now. Like that was all he could do.

Your body shook with each breath, each silent sob that spilled into the fabric of his shirt. You weren’t even sure what part of it broke you—J being thrown into the water, the ropes cutting into your skin, the helplessness, the fact that no one came until it was nearly too late—or maybe just the simple weight of surviving it.

Pope stayed quiet. Solid. A wall at your back.

He didn’t shush you. He didn’t tell you to stop crying. He just held on tighter.

Eventually, your cries softened. Still trembling, but quieter now, worn out from the storm. Your arms loosened, head still pressed to his shoulder, breaths coming in uneven little gasps.

“I thought I was gonna die,” you whispered against him, the words barely audible.

Pope didn’t answer right away. But you felt the slow rise and fall of his chest. The way he breathed in through his nose like he was trying to keep it together, too.

“You didn’t,” he said quietly. “You’re here.” In that soft, impossible voice of his—rough and raw and honest—you could feel the edge of something else underneath.

You stayed like that for a long time, curled against him in the quiet. The sounds outside the windows were distant—cars passing, wind through the trees, the faint hum of someone’s music down the block—but none of it touched you here. Not in this little pocket of stillness, where Pope’s arms stayed around you like he was trying to hold your broken pieces together with his own hands.

Your breathing slowed eventually. You felt the exhaustion in every limb, every bruise, but you didn’t want to move. Didn’t want to let go. The silence between you shifted—less sharp now, more full. Safe.

Your voice cracked when you finally spoke again. "I thought no one was coming."

Pope’s hand moved slowly along your back, not soothing exactly—more like he needed the contact too. He let the silence linger a moment longer before he answered.

"I should’ve gotten there sooner."

You pulled back just enough to look at him. His eyes were darker than usual, rimmed with something unspoken. Not guilt exactly—something deeper. Regret. Rage. Fear. All the emotions he felt so intensely. 

“You got there,” you whispered. “You found me.”

That mattered. It mattered more than he probably realized.

He looked at you for a long second. You could see it then—the way his jaw clenched, the slight shake in his hand as it rested against your hip. He hadn’t stopped replaying it. 

Finding you like that. 

Finding J.

“I didn’t know what I was gonna see,” he said finally. His voice was low, hoarse. “When I walked in.”

You swallowed hard, eyes stinging again. “They were gonna kill him. And they were gonna take me and Nicky too. I—I thought—”

Your breath hitched and his hand was already on the back of your neck again, grounding you, pulling you gently forward until your forehead rested against his. He didn’t kiss you. Didn’t say anything romantic or comforting. Just held you there, close.

“The guy…” you breathed, “he kept asking about the money. Smurf’s stuff. I don’t even know what the hell they wanted from me.”

“You didn’t tell them anything,” Pope said, more fact than question.

You shook your head. “Didn’t know anything important enough. I just… took the beating.”

His grip on you tightened for a second, like the thought of that was too much. Like he needed something to break. But then he took a breath, and when he spoke again, his voice was quieter.

“You did good.”

You looked at him—eyes puffy, cheeks streaked with tears—and almost laughed, but it came out cracked and sad. “I didn’t do anything.”

“You survived,” he said. “That’s everything.”

And you knew, in that moment, that if Pope had gotten there even five minutes later, he would’ve dragged bodies out of that pool himself. Not to save them. But to make sure they stayed under.

You let your forehead rest against his again, breathing in his warmth, the steady thrum of his presence. Not perfect. Not even close. But steady in the way only Andrew “Pope” Cody could be—quiet, fierce, unmovable when it mattered.

You closed your eyes.

“I don’t feel safe anywhere right now.”

His arms wrapped around you again, tighter this time. And his voice was soft enough it barely reached your ears.

“You are when you’re with me.”

mercvry-glow 2025

[quarterlifekitty]

Which obsessed! 141 character is most likely to harm their kidnapped partner? Is the harm minor like a smack or broken bones? I'd like to see a most to less likely scale👉👈

cw: kidnapping, dark fic, physical violence, emotional manipulation, serious wound/blood, minor amputation, description of parental abuse (does not occur in writing, just a personal anecdote). Also sorry I did the scale in reverse!

So I'm gonna say Soap is at the bottom tentatively. It depends on how well you can handle pain. I think he's almost overly empathetic-- he's the type who will cry if he sees someone crying, and wince when he sees someone in pain. So if you're easy to reduce to tears, he won't do very much, if anything. However I can also easily imagine a scenario... Stay with me here.

(So there's a style of corporal punishment, which I'm not going to say is good, but I can see Soap subscribing to it. My grandfather used to put his hand on the top of my fathers head and hit that. This is so that whenever he was giving him corporal punishment, my grandfather hurt himself as well, maybe more so, and wasn't able to forget how much force was being used. Again, not gonna say it was a good thing to do, but there's an amount of logic behind it.)

Anyways, I can see Soap doing that. Any injury he inflicts on you, he'll do to himself. It's almost like he's making his own soulmate style bond. It's another effort on his part to build up a connection between you-- a sort of camaraderie.

I think John cares too much about image to be able to hurt you very much. He won't do anything that will leave marks-- I also think he's the one most likely to take you on outings, so he can't exactly have you looking like an abused spouse. Anything he does is open palmed, nothing that leaves cuts or bruises.

Gaz prefers not to resort to violence, but he's not shy, either. He's more likely to put you in scenarios where its up to you not to get hurt, so less of the burden is on him. Things like holding a knife to your skin so you have to stay completely still. Also in situations where he'll grab, and tell you to say what he wants you to say or he'll just keep twisting.

Ghost is fully willing to hobble you. Not in a permanent way, but if you like running, like fiddling with things you shouldn't be fiddling with-- he will break bones and cut tendons. It is not in a way that causes more pain than needed. He isn't cruel, he doesn't want you to hate him and associate him with pain. So he'll dutifully care for the wound, make sure everything is setting correctly and that you have everything you could ever want while you recover. But it's possible he's only making sure it heals well so that he'll be able to do it again later if needed.

Nikolai's physical punishments will come without warning, without gradation. He'll basically let you rack up sins, offenses, bad behavior-- all while you don't know he's keeping a tab and fully intending for you to pay up when he's ready. And he will do permanent damage. Nikolai will have never once laid a hand on you in violence, and suddenly one day one of your tirades of screaming and calling him a monster ends with your pinky wedged in his bolt cutters, right at the middle knuckle, all while the look on his face doesn't change. And he makes you beg for him to help. Tell him you need him, that you always needed him, that you were being stupid and you didn't mean what you said. If you tell him what he wants to hear? Suddenly he's like a big cuddly bear again, doting on you and cooing poor thing while he neatly bandages and cleans everything, feeds you your favorite meal, doses you with plenty of painkillers and cocktails.

If you refuse to beg? Well, he won't let you die of gangrene or anything. He'll pour the nearest bottle of liquor over a kitchen knife and hold it on the stove for a minute before cauterizing the wound.

When all's said and done, months and months from now, he'll probably get you a decorative silver cap for what remains, finely engraved, with you new last name, perhaps?

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[ceilidho]

take me home, country road

[ao3]

prompt: 1800s price/reader…. reader flees to his town where Price is the sheriff after a murder in her previous town only to be mistaken for the mail order bride that Price just sent for ….and he’s not interested in hearing any of her excuses when she tells him that he’s got the wrong girl (part 6) part 1, part 2, part 3, part 4, part 5

-

And they say if it sways, you have to cut it off at the root.

You repeat that to yourself when you catch the way you glance out the kitchen window again, surreptitiously watching John. It’s hard to pull your eyes away. He walks over to the well to fetch water for you to do the dishes, the chore you’d elected to take when he offered you the choice between that and feeding the horses. It’s a fair compromise since you balk at the thought of getting anywhere near either of those beasts. 

Watching him bend over the well to lower the bucket down, his muscled shoulders tapering to a narrow waist and suspenders drawing tight against his back, makes you bite your lip. Then scowl. Then pull the curtain shut to block out the view.

You have to cut any gentleness off at the root. 

When he comes back, you step to the side without a word to let him pour the water into the wash basin, hot water from the teakettle and lye soap making the water already in the pan sudsy. In a sense, it’s not any different from anything you’ve done back home; the same two pans for washing and scalding, the same cake of soap, and the same dish towel to dry the dishes off at the end. The only difference is the man that pours the cool water into the basin to make it more comfortable for your hands. 

“I’ll be out back,” he tells you, before grabbing you around the waist and pulling you in close to press a close-mouthed kiss to the side of your head. You only scrunch your nose a little. “When you’re done, come get me. Got business in town.”

“Why do you need me to come with you?” you ask, lips cresting into a pout without a thought. You’d never considered yourself a bellyacher, but it’s almost second nature around John. “I can…I can stay and clean the house.”

“You saying I keep a messy home?” John asks, a teasing lilt in his voice.

You look pointedly down at the dirt he tracked into the kitchen after fetching the bucket of water from the well. “It could do with a spit shine.” 

That gets a laugh out of him, a bellow from deep in his belly. It shakes you to your bones. 

“Darling, I’ll be honest with you,” he says, turning you to face him before folding his arms across his chest. “I don’t trust you not to bolt like a runaway horse, and you’ll only wind up putting yourself in danger if you try to make a run for it out here.”

That expression makes your stomach twist. “Good to know you think of your wife as some scared filly.” 

“You talk a whole lot for a woman who’s been over my knee. Do we need to repeat that?”

When his tone goes stern, you lose the wedging piece of candor keeping you upright. Eyes widen and then narrow. He’s been patient despite your loose tongue, but when that patience slips, you can see the steel underneath his gentle exterior. It’s the true root of him. 

You clam up under his stare, sullen and begrudging. Smooth your dress down to have something to do with your hands. You’ve forgotten your place again. Side-stepped it out of intimacy or misplaced trust or naivety or forgetting, again, for the umpteenth time, that the world is not a place for women that open their mouths. So you keep it shut, trap every festering word behind your teeth. 

He must not like something he sees painted on your face because his brows draw closer together, frustration brewing anew in his eyes. The longer you stay quiet, the more irritated he grows, his nostrils flaring wide. 

“See that you come get me as soon as everything’s squared away in here,” John bites out, pointing a single, blunt finger at you. “Else I’ll come get you myself.”

And we wouldn’t want that, you think, surly. You hope it swims across your eyes. Blooms on your face. Perhaps it does. 

The lines around his mouth and eyes grow more defined when he smiles. His whole mustache moves with his smile, every part of his face expressing his satisfaction. It’s beyond infuriating. He taps you on the nose with his knuckle before leaving out the backdoor, not sparing you a backward glance. You nearly shake with indignation. 

It’s hard not to watch him out in the paddock while drying the dishes though, not with him set against the gilded sun. You inch the curtain slightly open, just enough of a gap to peer through. The Stetson shadows his face when he tilts his head up towards the sky, the hard edge of his jaw the only thing that meets your gaze. It’s not the first time you’ve seen a man out in the fields or pastures, but most of those have been at a distance, removed. Glimpsed briefly through the window while your train barreled on past acres of farmland. 

John cycles through the morning tasks of guiding the horses into the paddock by a lead fixed to their halter, replenishing the food trough, and fetching more water from the well to fill the water trough. His horses are striking in the sheer size of them; muscled shoulders and legs, and well-padded flanks. Most of the horses you’ve seen out west haven’t seemed nearly as well-fed, many whittled down to rib and hip bone. 

It says something about him, but you’re not ready to confront exactly what. You turn your attention back to the dishes, scrubbing the last of the dried butter and eggs at the bottom of the pan. It takes a little extra grit, but cleaning is a familiar chore—it’s one you’ve done all your life, what got you into this mess in the first place. 

You don’t like what you find when you finally venture out of the house to track him down. 

“I’m not getting on that thing.” 

You put your veritable foot down with that, arms straight and stiff by your sides, more out of worry than annoyance. You do also give a little stomp for good measure, but you’ll chalk that up to reflexes should John inquire. 

He doesn’t. Just stares down at you with unimpressed green eyes that haunt your days and nights now. Tells you without telling you that you’ll get on that horse, willing or not. 

It’s not for a lack of beauty that you can’t quite shake the nervousness they elicit in you. Buttercup, the one that John saddled up and now waits patiently to be mounted, keeps her head low as if sensing your disquiet, curiosity glimmering in her coal black eyes. Not even the animal curiosity of is this a friend or foe, but the curiosity that comes with pure trust, almost intelligible that way. 

John runs his hand down her smooth, buttery flank. “Did you enjoy yesterday’s walk?”

“I didn’t hate it.” Truth be told, you’d hardly been of a mind to notice it at all. Though your legs still ache from the walk back to John’s house, the walk itself had not seemed especially grueling in the moment. The mind can put aside quite a bit when it has something else to focus on. 

“Well, I’m not too keen to repeat it.” He leaves it at that, tightening a strap on Buttercup’s saddle in such a purposeful way that your shoulders tense. 

“I could meet you there,” you say, a touch desperately. Your stomach turns when you think about hoisting yourself up onto Buttercup’s saddle. It doesn’t seem possible. It’s not something you’ve ever done or ever considered doing. You remember horror stories of stableboys back home trampled under their hooves and stomped to death, kicks so powerful that they could break a fully grown man’s ribs or cave in his face. 

“My wife isn’t gonna wander into town by her lonesome like some vagrant,” John says disdainfully, almost scoffing. Insulted by the whole idea. “And you’re sure as hell not staying here alone, darlin’.”

“Well, figure something else out because I am not getting up on that thin—” You cut off on a yelp when he circles around you and abruptly lifts you up. Your head rushes at the sudden motion, legs flailing beneath you. 

“Quit squirmin’ like a damn barn cat. Little hellion,” John grits out, guiding your heel into the stirrup. “C’mon, you’re just side saddling, so you only need your butt on the saddle.” When he sets you down lightly onto the saddle, you stop wiggling around, acutely aware of the thousand pound horse beneath you. “There we go—that wasn’t so hard now, was it?” 

“I hate this,” you hiss, fingers clamped tight over the pommel. 

“Aw, darlin’, don’t go insulting Buttercup like that,” John chuckles, replacing your foot in the stirrup with his own.

You sit there stiff as a board, perched precariously on the saddle as he hoists himself up behind you. His sheer proximity doesn’t register right away. You’re too concerned with the moving beast under you, its ribs expanding and contracting with each breath. Unlike you, John is more than comfortable sitting astride the horse, not a smidgeon of tension in his body. You suck in a horrified breath when you feel him readjust himself before settling down more comfortably. 

He reaches around you to grab the reins, a sharp whistle signaling the horse to take her first stride forward, looping around the side of the house. Even the slow trot threatens to buck you off at first. You lurch forward with each step, certain that you’ll slip right off the saddle and onto the dusty ground below until John loops an arm around your waist and pulls you to his chest.

You grow stiffer in his arms somehow. Despite sleeping in the same bed the night before and sharing far too many kisses for your comfort or virtue, being pressed up tight against a man never gets easier. Perhaps if you’d been married for longer than a single day you’d be more at ease with the notion, but as of yet, it comes as a shock to the senses every time. 

You carefully avoid the thought that other married women wouldn’t be still in possession of their maidenhead so many hours after their wedding night. That’s none of your business.

The two of you navigate into town at a slow canter, allowing you to gradually acclimatize to the gait of a horse. Part of you remembers riding horses when you were younger, but that was a lifetime ago, long enough to shake the memory from your muscles. These days, you can barely remember the hands holding you steady, the ones that would’ve lifted you up onto the horse and helped you back down. Those people are faceless in your memories. 

John stays silent at your back, only tightening his hand around your hip when you slip the slightest bit when Buttercup picks up the pace, heading towards the familiar sight of the sheriff’s office. It draws a quick squawk out of you, neatly masked by a fake cough. His chuckle at that rumbles through you, clearly not buying it. Another lesson in humiliation. 

You manage not to flail as much when he gets off the horse and helps you down, even though you’re still not used to being manhandled so, particularly not in front of the townsfolk milling about and glancing over with undisguised interest. 

“Are you working today?” you ask, curiosity getting the better of you while John ties Buttercup’s lead to the post outside the sheriff’s office. 

“Don’t exactly get many days off when you’re the only sheriff in the county,” John replies. “We’ve got a few deputies in every town, and a couple here, but it ain’t an easy gig.”

“How many deputies have you got here?” 

“Just the three. Simon, John, and Kyle. You met Simon the other day.” 

His name draws up the faint memory of the masked deputy from your wedding ceremony. “I remember,” you say flatly. There’s no lost love between you and anyone involved with that sham of a wedding. 

“Don’t hold that against him,” John smiles. “He’s a good ole boy. Can’t fault a man for following the boss’ orders.”

Watch me. You glance away lest he see that thought etched across your face. 

The town is bustling with activity this late in the morning. Steps and floorboards creak under the weight of boots coming and going. A man going by in a horse-and-buggy whistles sharply when he cracks the reins, his horse puffing out a low, frustrated grunt. 

Men hustle past you decked out in leather chaps and waistcoats, spats covering the half-boots of those not decked out in tall, spurred cowboy boots. There are far less women scampering about town than men, particularly not so close to the sheriff’s office, but you keep finding your eyes drawn to them. 

John grips you under the arm and swiftly pulls you back when you narrowly sidestep a mound of horse droppings left uncovered in the middle of the road. The smell only hits you a second later. 

“Well, that’s lovely,” you remark, deadpanned, putting your foot down deliberately a good distance away. 

“Wouldn’t need to complain about it if you just watched your step.”

“You know, this really would’ve been a nice day to just stay home,” you mutter, chastised enough not to say something sharp in return. 

While the smell makes your nose wrinkle, you have to admit that the air here is far less pungent than back home. In general, this bucolic town is far more pleasant in certain respects than the city you’d left behind in a haste. 

“Where do you want me to wait for you?” you ask, turning to face him now at the front steps of the sheriff’s office.

He frowns. “Wait for me?”

“While you work, I mean. Surely you don’t mean for me to sit inside all day twiddling my thumbs while you work.”

His mustache twitches with a smile. “Thought I’d show you around first—get you acquainted with the locals.”

The idea of mingling with the townsfolk doesn’t appeal to you, but you also can’t think of a good enough reason to refuse. Especially with the curious glances already being sent your way. You duck your head to stare down at your boots when you spot a group of other women clustered together and whispering to each other, their eyes trained on you. Somehow you’ve gone from being furniture in a room to being a source of local gossip, and it’s almost hard to believe that you miss being ignored. 

When you look back up at John, you find him still staring down at you, waiting patiently. Up close, the sunlight almost turns patches of his beard gold; he has a smattering of moles across his face, not the blush of freckles but rather a few dark spots by his nose. Aside from the tuft of hair under his bottom lip, his chin is mostly bare, and when he smiles, his whole face moves with it. You have to blink to snap yourself out of it. 

Your upper lip curls involuntarily when you say, “So you want to help me make friends?” 

“Well, seeing as I know most of ‘em, figured I’d be a help.”

“The job’s really not all that busy then, huh?” You really wish you could learn to shut your mouth, since it keeps getting you in trouble, but the barbs roll off your tongue so naturally. Luckily, it seems to amuse him now more than it did early this morning. 

“Guess life isn’t as exciting ‘round here as it is back in the city, but it has its days,” John chuckles. “Now come on; I’ll give you the tour.”

For some reason, you hadn’t pictured the town being quite so big, but during your walk, you realize you’ve vastly underestimated the true size of it. Though not anywhere near as ostentatious as the cities back east, the sheer breadth of it eclipses anything from back home. It’s spread out on an incomparable scale, the mountains in the background stretching out along the horizon like the skeletal remains of a giant long since dead and decayed.  

It’s not the ramshackle town you envisioned when you stepped off the train the other day, despite the wooden facades and their brightly painted signs. You almost wish you had more time just to admire the craftsmanship, but John leads you from store to store like he’s on a mission.

He seems most interested in towing you around like some prized mare, all trussed up and clean from your bath the night before. You meet so many people that their names and faces all begin to blur together. The worst offense of all is that it makes you lean on John for support, looking up at him again and again for reassurance whenever you can’t answer a question or your answer triggers a moment of awkward silence. 

Those moments come aplenty too. The few people nosey enough to ask you about your life back in the city find themselves on the butt end of a cheerfully delivered lie from John. It unnerves you at first, seeing how comfortable he is with lying. He doesn’t even hesitate for a second when recounting your previous life as a schoolteacher in Connecticut prior to your engagement.

Perhaps it’s not a lie though. You don’t know the extent to which he and his original betrothed corresponded. Certainly not enough for him to suspect you of not being her, but maybe she’d spun him that story. Or maybe it had been the truth. All this time you’d thought that John had been swindled by some con artist using desperate men to fund her lifestyle, but maybe somewhere between here and Connecticut, there’s an unmarked grave with the corpse of the woman that John had intended to marry. 

That makes you feel guilty somehow, like you’ve taken something not meant for you. Even if you hadn’t wanted it—in fact, been forced into taking it. 

You swallow that thought when John leads you into the general store. Your eyes bug at the sight of a blonde haired woman in khaki cloth knickerbockers stocking the shelves, who turns at the sound of the door creaking open, the sharp look on her face melting away at the sight of John.

The warmth in her face infuriates you more than it should. You have no right to feel this way—or, some right, but you resent the fact that you do as well. 

“Hi John,” she greets. Her voice is deeper than you anticipated, springtime crisp like a babbling brook. 

“Laswell,” John greets, scooping his arm around your side until he can palm the side of your hip, dragging you in close. You stumble into him, catching yourself with a hand on his chest. Your neck and face go hot when Laswell’s eyes turn on you, curiosity glinting in them. 

“Your lady finally showed up then,” she surmises. “I’ll be honest, I was starting to think you made her up. Told the boys to think about forcing you into an early retirement.”

John huffs at that. His fingers tighten at your waist when Laswell says your lady, as if the words alone make it fact. Speak it into being. The metal burns against your ring finger. In a sense, it is fact, despite the subterfuge. You wonder if it would hold up in court, but out here, it’s real enough. 

“Well, she’s very real, as you can tell.” He gives you a little shake with the hand on your waist. “Say hi, darlin’.”

If looks could kill, yours would be pit-viper venom. You’d leave behind a festering puncture mark and a body in the throes of envenomation. “Excuse me?”

Your attitude might come at a cost this time because he looks unamused at your back talk in front of an audience. “Darlin’.” It’s said like a warning. 

You bite your tongue instead of lashing out. “Pleasure to meet you.”

“Kate Laswell; I own this little shop,” she says, introducing herself and stepping forward to hold out her hand. You have to step forward to take it, pulling you out of John’s arms. It feels familiar being on your own, certainly more natural than being constantly at John’s side the way you have for almost two days now. It’s also a bit cold after having John’s warmth at your back or side at all times. 

There’s a moment when you realize that Kate is the first person you’ve had to introduce yourself to, John having introduced you to everyone else you’d come across. It hovers on the tip of your tongue when you realize that you could just say your real name, and you find yourself torn between setting it free and the odd fear of John’s reaction. 

You chicken out at the last second, giving Kate the same name as the one John introduced you by to everyone else in town. 

“He might growl like a bear, but you’ll get used to that,” she says, winking.

You frown. Awfully familiar talk for someone who isn’t his wife. Why should she know that? 

You make yourself push that thought away, reminding yourself again that it doesn’t matter. It’s none of your concern. 

“He’s been a gentleman,” you croak instead, smile so thin that it might as well be a grimace. 

A shout from the bar across the street startles you, drawing your attention away from the conversation. John stills too. A series of raised voices puts him on alert, and then someone inside the bar must fire a gun because the violent crack of one makes you scream, the noise pulled involuntarily from your chest. 

“Stay here,” John growls, his pistol already drawn. He’s out the door before you can respond, darting across the street towards the bar and shouldering the door open so hard that it rattles in its frame. You watch everything happen through the window of the general store with your heart in your throat. 

“Good Lord,” you whisper, hand over your mouth. Kate stands beside you in a similar manner, her eyebrows pinched in concern. 

The thought doesn’t even occur to you that now would be the perfect time to make a break for it, with John busy across the street. Your feet are rooted in place; you doubt you’d be able to take so much as a single step towards the door. 

There’s precious little that you can see through the grit-lined bar windows, not as dusty and dirty as they are, but you can hear the commotion from inside. Raised voices and the sound of breaking glass. It makes you flinch, heart galloping at an even faster pace. Like harness horses on the Freehold Raceway. It’s not long before you see a large, masked man hightailing it down the road towards the bar, dust clouding around his boots with each heavy step. 

You recognize him almost instantly as the man from your wedding, the one that signed your marriage license. John’s man—Simon. He nearly takes the bar door off its hinges when he throws it open, barely in there a second before he and John come out each with a man in hand, both already handcuffed and looking roughed up They drag them stumbling down the dirt road towards the sheriff’s office, Simon half-dragging another man whose white button-down is slowly saturating with red blood oozing out of a gunshot wound in his belly.

“Shouldn’t they call a doctor for that man?” you ask Kate in a frantic voice, whipping around to face her. 

She nods. “They probably will once they’ve got the four of them locked up. Doctor probably heard that anyway—he’ll be on his way, I bet.”

“On his way already?”

“There’s only one doctor around here. And not much else sounds like a gunshot.”

“Does that happen a lot around here?” You don’t know why the thought makes you nervous, but there’s a cramp in your belly and a sweat building up on the back of your neck and your hands itch to grab something. When you swallow, it almost doesn’t go down. 

“It’s not uncommon. I reckon it’s not something you’re used to?”

You purse your lips. “I’ve seen a dead body before.” You don’t know why that comes out so defensively, like a slight that’s been levied against you. There’s no easy way to dispel the myth in everyone’s mind that you come from a life of comfort and ease, with delicate hands fit for delicate work. You curl your hands into fists at the thought, conscious of the old scars and calluses built up over years of scrubbing and cleaning. If she were to look down, she wouldn’t see the well-kept hands of a lady. 

When Kate quirks an eyebrow, you realize that your response had nothing to do with her question. “Well, look at you.”

When John and Simon disappear into the jailhouse, the door swinging shut behind them, you sway on your feet for a second, feeling oddly unbalanced. Something about the sight of the man’s blood leaves you feeling woozy, taking the chair that Kate offers you when she sees the way you rock back on your heels. 

“Let me get you something to drink,” Kate offers, brows now furrowed sympathetically at the pathetic sight you must be. “I’m sure you got a little fright thinking of your husband facing down a man with a gun, but I’m afraid that comes with marrying a sheriff. There’s danger everywhere, you know.”

What you don’t say is that your lightheadedness came not just from the sight of the man with the blood leaking from a wound in his stomach, but the grim look on your husband’s face as he carted away the man responsible, eyes hard as steel. No sympathy for the man in his hands. Only another criminal to be tossed away in a jail cell. The punishment for making another man bleed.

Your hands shake in your lap, but you don’t say that. Instead, you smile weakly and take the glass of water from her hands when she comes back from filling it at the sink. “You’re right. Just a little fright.”

[beefrobeefcal]

The Debt Collector feat. Clint Flood

Summary: Your boyfriend has a debt with a dangerous man that he skips out on. Then Clint is sent in to collect.

Clint x f!reader | Rating: 18+ MDNII | Word Count: 7,751

Content Warnings: clint is a mean man, buckets of sexism, p in the v - raw, oral (f!receiving), jerking off, face sitting, belly worship, derogatory name calling, power imbalance, slight coercion but all parties are consenting, weight appreciation, weight self consciousness, mentions of mafia/mob/gangs, criminal activity (no direct statements), cross contamination with another beef series, poor sandwich skills are really the catalyst, rough-ish sex, clint has a potty mouth - don't let him meet any family elders who you want respect from

Author's Notes: is beef back? well i never really went anywhere, but I have a full bodied offering for the public today. Thank you to @strang3lov3, @whocaresstillthelouvre, @weregirlbyknight and @bitchesuntitled for their love and eyes! Thanks also to @saradika-graphics for the dividers.

No more tag lists - follow @beefnotes + turn on notifications for fic updates!

You heard a car door close outside in the parking lot of the scummy motel your boyfriend, Jack, had dragged you to in a panic. You had no idea why he had, but as soon as you saw the blood drain from his face at the sound of the loud motor followed by a door slamming, you started to put the pieces together. 

By the time you heard heavy footsteps reverberating through the shaky concrete and rusted metal staircase, your boyfriend was up and scrambling out the bathroom window. A loud thud from him hitting the dumpster below left you suddenly very aware of how alone you were. The knock at the door turned you away from the bathroom. You froze. If whatever was on the other side of the door was enough to send your, what you thought anyway, strong and mean boyfriend leap from a second storey bathroom window and bolt, you didn’t have a chance. 

Another knock. Silence. You crouched behind the counter of the kitchenette, and sat in silence. 

A loud bang and the door was flung open, crashing against the wall, no doubt wedging the doorknob in the softened and stained drywall. The sound of a low, huffed grunt broke through the ambient sound of traffic, followed by the doorknob being dislodged from the wall and the door closed. You could hear the creeks and splintering of the wood and drywall, and knew there was no way you’d be getting any part of your deposit back. 

“I know yer here, ya fuckin’ puke.”

You knew that voice. Shit. No no no. 

You knew your boyfriend was about as smart with money as you were with men, but this was a whole new level of bad. If Clint was here, this meant he owed the wrong men a lot of money that he didn’t have. God dammit, please don’t say…

“Big Fish don’t take too kindly to late payments, Jack.”

Fuck. 

Big Fish Morales, head of the Frontiersmen, was notorious for getting really mean about money he was owed. Everyone thought the previous guy was bad until that one skid Steve didn’t pay. Not only did Big Fish have his face beaten in, he also took his sister and lord knows what he did to her. You’d heard a rumor that Steve washed up dead on the waterfront a few weeks later and you had no idea what happened to his sister. 

As you sat in thought, you let out a bit too loud of a sigh and your head bumped against the particle board cabinet behind you. You heard a short, huffed chuckle and looked up to see Clint looking over the counter at you with a crooked grin. 

“Hey, pretty girl.”

Your stomach dropped as you tried to smile sheepishly. 

“Where’s Jack, gorgeous?” His tone was low and gruff, but you could tell he was trying to be at least a bit softer than if he was speaking with Jack himself. 

“I- he’s not here.” You managed to stammer out, as Clint kept you in his eye sight while he made his way around the counter.

Your eyes widened when his large, heavy frame came into full view. Last time you saw Clint, it was from afar and you didn’t speak to him. It was at one of those underground poker rings almost two years ago, but his voice and press was ingrained into your brain at the time. However, you didn’t recall him being this big; his middle was definitely bigger, his belly rounded and bowing his belt in the front and pulling his shirt tight and you could see the divot from his belly button in the fabric. 

One of his big hands came up and a thick finger beckoned you to him. “Come here, pretty girl.” His voice was like gravel and somewhat patronizing. 

You stared up at him, brows furrowed and lips slightly parted; your brain was slow on the uptake in processing his request. The low huff he let out accompanied by a head tilt got you moving, your shaky legs standing you up clumsily. You apparently didn’t move quickly enough as you stood because Clint took two quick steps towards you and gripped your wrist, and you let out a surprised squeak. His other hand came up and a fat finger pointed up at your face as he tugged you towards him.

“Before you holler, ‘member I’m bein’ nice.” 

He pulled you towards the couch and pushed you to sit on it, and he sat heavily next to you, hand snaking onto your thigh, his fat fingers gently kneading your skin.

He lowered his head, his eyes giving you a patronizingly stern look. “Now. I'm gonna ask you again: where is Jack?” His voice crackled like the last smoking embers of a campfire.

You furrowed your brows at him and shook your head, but he cut you off as you were about to respond.

“Now don’t go saying you don’t know again.”

You looked up at him, eyes darting around his face, trying to figure out another way to convey you had no idea where that rat bastard had gone. “I… know not?” 

He tilted his head with an unimpressed face and sighed. “You’re really gonna do this?”, he asked flatly. “Fine. Go make me a sandwich. Be useful while I figure out what to do with you.”

“Uh… okay. Well, this is a hotel room and…”, you paused, waiting for him to catch on that this was more than likely going to be a pisspoor excuse for a sandwich. 

When he didn’t respond with anything beyond a slight raise of his eyebrows, you huffed and stood up. “It’s not going to be great…”

You felt a swat on the back of your thigh. “Hey, knock it with the attitude. Get me my sandwich.”

In the kitchen, you pulled out all the food you’d brought with you and looked down at it. Clint had picked up a magazine Jack left strewn on the floor, and you could hear him huff a chuckle intermittently along with the sound of pages being turned. 

This was going to be a horrible sandwich. 

“Bon appetit.”, you mumbled, handing a paper plate with a loose interpretation of a sandwich on it to Clint. 

He looked at it, face skewed in confusion, as he tried to make out what you had handed to him. 

“What in the fuck, chickadee?”, he muttered, aghast. “What did you do?”

“It’s the best I could do, okay?”

“It’s thick ass apple slices with mustard and beef jerky between’em.”

Clint tossed the plate onto the stained coffee table with a scowl, and grunted as he hauled himself up off the couch. He stood over you, larger and imposing, and his hand came out quick, gripping your jaw between his meaty index finger and thumb. If it weren’t for the fact that you’d heard rumors of what Clint was capable of, his big, soft, dark brown eyes would have lulled you into a false sense of security, disarming you immediately. No wonder he was so good at his job; one look from those peepers would have just about anyone falling over themselves and into his fists of fury if they were none the wiser.

“So you’re useless….”

You glared at him in response to his biting words. His eyes narrowed in return and he nodded with a soft, “huh.”, and his tongue ran along the inside of his bottom lip as if he were mulling over something. 

He released your chin and stepped back, eyes roaming down then back up your figure, then raised his brow, giving a nod in approval. “Maybe useless isn’t the right word.”

You felt a horrible mash up of butterflies and anxiety sprout in your stomach. “What?”

Clint offered you nothing short of a sweet smile that carried something more malevolent underneath. 

“Jack’s got a debt.”, he stated softly, as if he were explaining this to a child.

You nodded, watching as he reached behind him. Your blood ran cold as you assumed he was getting his gun, but instead he pulled out his wallet. You watched, confused and curious, as Clint opened it and from the cash compartment, retrieved an off white and weathered, folded paper. 

He felt the front of his jacket, clearing his throat, then pulled out his glasses and put them on. Unfolding the paper, he looked you over once more, and then read the paper. His lips moved slightly as his eyes skimmed over the faded text, and then he nodded, and folded the paper up, put it back in his wallet and took off his glasses.

“Okay sweetheart, you’re gonna pay off your fuckwad of a boyfriend’s debt.”, Clint said with a grin and raised brows.

Your head was still reeling. You were so mad at Jack right now, but you also knew he would find out how his debt was paid. That seemed to give you a brief moment of smugness, at least enough to get you over the anger long enough to cycle back to think about how you actually need to pay this debit… then the cycle started again.

Everything you willingly engaged in with Clint - sexually - held a price. Do enough of them, you could bring down Jack’s debt either entirely or to a degree that Big Fish would get off his case for a bit. You couldn’t help but make the connection to your landlord and the cleaning list he handed you when you signed the lease with him last year; everything had a cost that would come out of your security deposit if you didn’t do it. Except this was $150 for a handjob, $200 for a blowjob with a condom, $500 for sex with a condom, $500 for a blowjob bare, $1000 for bareback sex, $2500 for anal… and so on. Again, your mind spun through the numbers, trying to figure out how many times you could starfish under his fat body to pay off the $9k in debt.

“...not because I want this, sweetheart, but it’s the principle of the - are you still with me?”

Clint’s voice cut into your spiraling and you looked up, being met with his large brown eyes. 

“Hey!”, he barked as he snapped his fingers. “I know this is transactional but I need your consent, baby.”

You blinked and nodded. “Uh.. yeah. Yeah, It’s good-I’m good.”

He nodded and then stood up straight and looked around, his mouth pulling into a frown. He grimaced at the hotel room. “Place is a fucking dump, sweetheart. You sure you wanna do this here?”

You too took a moment to look around the squalor that was apparently a hotel room, shitty excuse for a sandwich tossed on the table included, and you shrugged. “Where else?”

Clint’s mid-80’s Chevy Monte Carlo pulled up in front of a large, red brick warehouse looking… warehouse. It was a fortress, and there were armed men at the door. However, as soon as they saw who it was driving in, their weapons were lowered and friendly-ish looking grins spread on their faces.

“Uh.. where are we?”, you asked as Clint grabbed your arm and pulled you across the bench seat and out of the vehicle. 

“Well, since that piss poor excuse for a hotel room wasn’t up to snuff, I brought you right to the debtor for our little… transaction.” He turned and looked at you for the final word, one side of his mouth was pulled into a smile. 

“Hey. Clint, you fat old fuck.”, a shorter, dark haired asshole with brown eyes in a black leather bomber jacket called out. His thick brows made him look like Bert from Sesame Street, or even Sam the Eagle from The Muppets. His eyes shifted from Clint to you and the grin he pulled on his face made you feel sick. “And who do we have here?”

“Fuck you, Pope.”, Clint grunted, tugging you along into the building. “That’s who.”

As he guided you in his firm grip through the front doors, you could hear the one he called ‘Pope’ laugh. The hallway he led you down eventually led to a stairwell. Clint stopped you, already looking a little winded.

“Fuck..”, he huffed, letting you go and putting his hands on his hips. He caught you watching him, sensing a bit of concern in your gaze and he waved you off. “Haven’t done a hell of a lot of walking lately… and elevator’s out in this place…”

You nodded, attempting to show that you understood and sympathized, but really, you were completely confused as to where you were and when you were going to get fucked. 

Clint nodded along with you. “You got no fucking clue…”, and he sighed then changed to shaking his head. “Sorry, sweetheart. We’ll get you sorted quick, then you can…”, his hand made a rolling motion. “...then you can get back to that fuckass boyfriend of yours.” He then widened his eyes and took a deep breath. “He’s gonna owe you big time - “

“Oh, I’m done with him. Yeah, no that’s not happening anymore.” You nodded for emphasis, and again Clint nodded with you, and huffed a chuckle with a grin.

“Good girl.”

It didn’t take Clint long to decide that he wasn’t going to traverse the stairs and then fuck the debt out of you. A tall, blond guy, maybe a bit older than you, led both you and Clint to a room on the main floor. It wasn’t much but it wasn’t anything requiring a tetanus shot like the hotel room you’d left. The bed was king sized and there was a small ensuite with a seafoam green tub-shower combo in it. None of the towels matched, nor did the bedding, but it had a bit of a homey feel. 

You caught yourself feeling less threatened and more at ease, almost forgetting what you were doing here as he stayed back, letting you get comfortable. He meant it when he said he wanted your consent. He may be a mob enforcer but he’s not a monster - at least not like that. But he was also a man and you were a gorgeous woman. He hadn’t fucked anything that he didn’t have to pay since he lost his wife, so this was a welcome change. Sure, he was doing a bit more than asking in this circumstance, and he was using your shitrat boyfriend’s debt as a means to getting you on your back, but he knew he could at least show you a good time while he was at it. It also didn’t hurt that you didn’t seem repulsed by his weight. When he’d made the option available to you, you didn’t recoil, in horror, so that was a plus. 

He reached over and locked the door, the soft click of the lock pulling you back to reality. You kept your back to the door, to Clint, looking out the window at the waterfront. It was dusk and you could hear him moving to the edge of the bed and sitting down, the frame and boxspring groaning under his weight. 

“Striptease is $75.”, he said in a soft, measured voice. 

You looked at him over your shoulder, and saw he’d taken his jacket off. His flannel shirt was pulled and puckered across his belly as he sat with his thighs open to accommodate his heavy middle. 

“Come on, baby…”, he motioned softly. “Come on over and let’s start with that $75.”

You turned and stood in front of him, your brain going through any and all striptease from movies you’d watched but it only came up with Jamie Lee Curtis in True Lies, and that’s all you had to work with. 

Worse than that, the only song you could hear in your head at that moment was ‘Duel of the Fates’ from Revenge of the Sith, so now you were doubly screwed. You took a deep breath and turned around, figuring that at least if Clint was staring at your ass, he wouldn’t see your face, twisted in embarrassment. You began to rock your hips, slowly at first, the sharp notes of the soundtrack in your head guiding your rhythm. Crossing your arms in front of your torso, you pulled your t-shirt above your head, and tossed it behind you. Closing your eyes and letting yourself get lost in the most intense part of the instrumental music in your mind, you hooked your thumbs in your leggings’ waistband and shimmed them down, then pulled them off entirely- 

“Stop. Jesus, stop!”, Clint groaned.

Your brain went silent, and you turned around to look at Clint. “What?”

He pinched the bridge of his nose and let out a weary breath. “Stop. You look like you have a stick up your ass - your… very nice ass - but you have the grace of a scared pack of lemmings.”, he looked up at you. “Sorry, sweetheart, but I will call that $150 if you never do that again.”

“Oh… okay.”, you nodded, your cheeks heating up, and offered meekly with a shrug, “I never really was a-a dancer.”

“That’s- that’s apparent.”, Clint nodded, looking away and rolling his eyes. “I now know you won’t be on top.”

His eyes roamed all over your body and you remembered then that you were standing in front of him in nothing but your bra and thong underwear. He nodded in approval.

“Well, you got all that working for you. Come here.” He hooked his finger and necked you towards him. “You got some debt to work through.”

You stepped towards him, and he took your hand, gently tugging you closer. He kept his voice soft as he looked up at you. “Now, I am not the kind of guy who’ll make you work bareback, but doing it that way is worth more.”

You swallowed thickly and nodded. You wouldn't even let Jack cum in you, demanding that he either wore a condom or didn’t get to fuck you at all, but something about Clint and how this was so transactional… the risk and naughtiness of having this fat man cum in you being worth more against the debt was arousing. Unconsciously, you squeezed your thighs together and your sigh was made audible by the small whine that came with it.

His brow raised as he looked at you and his mouth pulled into a thoughtful frown that turned to a light grin. “Well, I guess I got my answer then. On your knees, sweetheart.”

Despite your earlier yearnings, you’d forgotten about everything but him fucking you raw. Blow jobs had completely slipped your mind, and your face fell a bit. 

Clint chuckled. “What? You thought I’d just raw dog your pretty little snatch and be done? No, babycakes, you’re on the clock here and let's hope your mouth is better than your dance moves.”

“Yeah… okay fine. I guess that makes sense.”, you begrudgingly agreed with a slight eye roll. You dropped down to your knees and scooted closer to him. His belt was peeking from between the pulled flannel and you pushed it up, and tugged on the belt to get it open. You could see on the worn leather that there had been several holes added to lengthen the original belt size, more than likely to accommodate a growing figure. The hole he had his belt buckled to was at the very possible end of the strip of leather; any other hole made past it would probably rip the end and render the belt useless. 

“You got a thing for belts or something?” Clint’s chipped tone cut through your musings and he moved his hand to your jaw tentatively, like he wanted to try touching you before fully committing. 

You felt your cheeks heat up again under his touch and his gaze, but you couldn’t pull your eyes from his belt and the way it dug a bit into his rounded middle. You swallowed thickly and managed to spit out, “More like what the belt is on…”

Clint responded with a huffed laugh, causing you to look up at his face. He had a bit of a bashful smirk, his eyes darting around your face, as if he were trying to figure out if you were making fun of him. 

His head tilted in a sideways nod, and he spoke in a low, gruff tone. “So, you’re one of those…”

You were sure what one of those was but you nodded anyway, and Clint chuckled and mused, running his thumb along your bottom lip, “Jack was just such a wirey fuck…”

It dawned on you what he meant; one of those girls who likes fat guys. You felt a little too exposed with that revelation. “Dick is dick.”, you tried to state coolly, but it came out in more of a choked grunt. 

“I’m sure it is, sweetheart.”, he chuckled again. “But I guarantee Jack didn’t outgrow his belt like a fucking hog.”

You knew the moment you involuntarily sucked in a sharp breath between your teeth and squirmed on your knees ever so indelicately, Clint had your number.

“So Jack’s girl is a little minx with a - help me out here, honey. Is it the weight or the gut?” The smug grin on his face as he asked was almost too much and you tried to pull back from his grip.

“Uh-uh. No. This is too good, babycakes.”, Clint laughed. “Your dream come true!”

You didn’t have a leg to stand on, and you knew it. The only option you had left was to join in. Sucking back your pride - or what little there was of it left at this moment - you forced a smile. “Because I’m fucking you, is it worth more? Like pound for pound?”

Clint’s face hardened and his gentle hold on your jaw tightened on your face. “Funny… funny girl…”

He shoved you back and stood up with some effort and he unbuttoned his flannel, his eyes boring into yours with a cold glare. From the top down, as each button was released, more of his strained undershirt became visible. Then he unbuckled his belt and ripped it from his pants with a loud crack, making you jump while still on your knees. Your comment about his weight apparently had hit a sore spot, and you only slightly regretted it as he stood tall and loomed over you. He folded his belt in half, holding an end in each hand; he pulled it tight, causing a loud snap. 

“You want to be funny, baby?...”

Good fucking god. You swallowed hard, as his large frame cast a shadow over you. He was backlit by the tit-looking light fixture on the ceiling. 

“...or you want to be a good girl?”

Your mouth moved before your brain. “...both... “

As soon as you said it, you cringed. You’d never in a bajillion years been like this with anyone else. But you couldn’t help it! Clint was apparently a pro at bringing out your inner brat, that up until this very moment you didn’t know existed. 

His mouth pulled into a tight line, and he undid his jeans, pulling them down enough to see the sizable bulge in his boxers underneath, pressing up against his belly.

“Now, I’m gonna level with you, sweetheart: you so much as tug a pube or knick me with one of those teeth in your mouth, I will use this belt. Got it?”

Fuck, the way his eyes stared you down while you were on the floor… It was humiliating and exhilarating. 

Clint shimmied his jeans down far enough that they dropped to his ankles and he sat back on the bed heavily. “Come on over… get to work.”

Despite his earlier bravado, you could see the cracks in the facade. There was an insecurity now that bled from his presence in the room. Like that crack about his weight really did a number on his self esteem and even though the circumstance you were currently in with him didn’t demand niceties, you certainly didn’t want to hurt his feelings.

You awkwardly crawled over to him, and with your hands on his knees, you looked up, trying to keep your face as soft and sweet as you could. You made sure he was watching you as your hands slid up his thighs and to the waistband of his boxers that sat just below the red line his belt had wedged into his skin on his stomach. 

“You figured me out pretty quick…”, you cooed softly, your hands tugging his boxers down under his belly then pushing his undershirt up. His stomach moved slightly with each breath, then tightened as you traced your fingers delicately over the skin. “It’s both…”

He cleared his throat.. “What-uh… what d’ya mean?”

“Weight and belly.”, you confessed lowly, your index finger circling his deep belly button with a whisper touch. 

The sharp breath he sucked in caused his middle to twitch and shift in his lap, you felt emboldened, and to be frank, fucking hornier than a badger in heat. Leaning forward, your lips started with soft, slow kisses on his stomach.

“Fuck…”, he choked out, his hands fisting on either side of him on the bed. 

One hand dropped between the two of you, and a finger hooked into his boxers, allowing his engorged and hard member to push out. Just the weight of his uncut cock in your hand was enough to bring out a soft sigh, and Clint groaned in response. His own hand came up and cupped your cheek. 

“Sweetheart…”, he groaned. “Honey… no t-teasing… teasing gets you n-no money…”

“Not teasing…”, you murmured against his skin, now pressing wet, open mouth kisses on his stomach. 

You gripped his cock and began to pump him while your mouth moved further down and your tongue circled the rim of his belly button.

The shudder and grunt Clint let out was music to you, encouragement to keep this up, and your tongue pressed in deep to the divot. The hand he had on your cheek shifted to your hair and he gripped it hard, pulling your head back.

“You’re a fucking belly slut, huh?”, he snarled as your hand continued to jerk him, tugging back the foreskin with each swipe. 

You nodded, your mouth, cheeks and chin were wet with your saliva. 

His brows twitched in and out of a furrow white your hand kept working. 

“Stop… Fuck, stop…”, he grunted breathily. “Babygirl… stop… gonna make me cum… wanna… don’t wanna lose the chance to cum in your - “

“Where?” You didn’t recognize your own voice. “In my pussy?”

“Fuck… “ He licked his lips, his eyes fluttering closed. “Wanna eat your pussy first… call it $500 to lemme eat you, baby…”

You release your hold on his dick, but the hold he had on your hair didn’t let up. He tugged you up and against him. In a quick motion, you were on the bed on your back, your legs at the knee dangling off the edge of the bed. 

His mouth was on yours quickly and his hand gruffly pushed your legs apart. His middle finger pressed against your panties, feeling how wet you were, and he groaned into your mouth as his tongue slid against yours.

Clint’s finger slipped under your panties, pushing them to the side. You squirmed against his body as it gently dipped into your hole and then circled up to your clit, then pressed down.

“Clint…”, you whined softly, your back aching slightly.

“Sh sh sh… I know…”, he cooed then sucked your lower lip between his, then released it with a pop. “You’re so wet, sweetheart… five hundred bucks…”

Your eyes were barely open but you could see the desperation in Clint’s. You knew you could demand just about any amount at this moment and he would agree if it meant he got to get his mouth on your pussy. But fuck, those big brown eyes, pleading and begging… It seemed that you were both well and truly fucked over for one another.

“Uh-huh.”, you managed to pant out.

His eyes were dark and zeroed in on yours while the meat of his palm pressed against your lips and clit. “Grind on me. Don’t got lube and I wanna make sure you're wet enough for me.”

You started to grind down on his hand, but he’d already pulled two orgasms out of you and you were normally a one or two and done kinda girl. 

The sound of Clint’s wet mouth pulling into a smile gave you the hint that he was not done with you.

“Clint…”, you whined softly.

He pressed a little harder against you. “What do you need, baby?”

“Clint… fuck!”

“Use your words, beautiful.”

“Clint… t-talk…”

His brows raised slowly. “You want me to talk to you?”

You nodded, your hand reaching down and gripping the wrist of the hand planted firmly between your legs. 

“Yeah? Want me to talk you into getting wet? Pussy won’t drool unless she’s talked nicely to? How’d Jack get you off, huh?”

You shook your head, eyes closed. “Don’t… no, don’t talk about him…”

He smiled. “What should I talk about then, baby?”

You rocked your hips against his hand, a soft moan careening out of your parted lips, your eyes closed. To Clint, you were a vision.

“Come on, sweetness… use your words. Tell me what you need to hear.”

“Need… just ta-talk… anything…”

He smiled to himself. Nothing was a bigger boost of confidence than watching a beautiful creature fall apart with such a small effort on his part. 

“Tell you how pretty you are… how fucking good you look getting off on my hand. Makes me feel like kingshit, baby… so fucking perfect…”

If you weren’t already transfixed on the feeling of Clint’s hand, you’d think his words were based in reality, and not the circumstances you both found yourselves in together. The way his voice sounded was low, rough, yet soft and gentle, like if gravel was made out of bubbles.

The feeling was ripped away quickly when Clint’s hand disappeared and he crawled up on the bed. Clint rolled onto his back. He lifted his head and his hand felt around beside him until it found your hand. He pulled you up the bed and onto him. 

“M’knees are bad.. Come on over and up you get.” Clint’s face was stone cold serious as he spoke. It was only the mischievous sparkle in his eyes that told you just how excited he was for this.

You should have said it would be worth more than $500.

Once you removed your underwear and climbed up, seating yourself on his face, you really regretted asking for it to be worth more. The way his hands clamped down on your hips and tugged you firmly down on his mouth, and you felt his lips part and his tongue swirl around your hole, you would be lucky if you were able to walk after this. 

Clint was ravenous. He loved eating pussy, so much so that his marriage lasted an additional three years past what it should have based on that little fact alone; his ex had said as much during the divorce proceedings. And now with your weight on his face, your scent and musk enveloping him, he was in heaven. You were so pretty and the sounds he was pulling out of you made you even more so to him. He knew this was only a job and you were technically being coerced into this, he was happy to get lost under you, tasting you, and pretending for just a brief moment that he could pull a pretty thing like you. 

As your thighs started to shake and squeeze his head, you leaned back and grabbed your ankles. Clint’s fingers dug deeper into your hips, keeping you firmly in place and he tongue-fucked your hole as his nose rubbed furiously against your bundle of nerves. 

“Oh fu-fuck!”, you choked out, your orgasm washing over you. Against Clint’s hold, you tried to rut your cunt on his face.

As you started to come down, he tensed up his arms, his hands clamping down harder, holding you firmly in place. He tipped his chin up and his lips sucked hard on your clit, causing you to instinctively try and jerk away from him, but you couldn’t get away.

You let out a shrieking whine as his front teeth barely grazed your hooded nub as he sucked it between his lips, forcing another orgasm out of you.

“Cli-please! Fu-Clint! Shitfuck! Oh oh oh oh! Oh god dammit! Clint!”, you caterwailed, body shaking you through another wave of ecstasy. 

It was almost perfect timing when he started to loosen his grip and your hips jerked, causing your whole wet cunt to swipe over his nose and onto his forehead. He let out a satisfied grunt and you heard him noisily lick his lips.

You panted and gracelessly fell beside him on the bed, your calf now draped heavily over his mouth. His hand gripped your ankle gently, lifted it and he pressed a kiss to the inside of your lower calf, and lowered it above his head. He stayed laying on his back. 

“500 bucks…”, Clint huffed with a smile, nodding, sounding pleased with his good fortune.

You grinned despite still being able to feel your heartbeat in your cunt. “Now what?”

“Now -”, he said before letting out a grunt as he sat up. “Now, you’re gonna work a grand off that fucker’s debt.”

As much as it excited you to get railed raw but Clint, there was a flutter of disappointment at the reminder of what this was - purely a business transaction that you’d gotten caught in the crosshairs of; your body and what you could do with it was the currency. 

Clint turned around, giving you a devilishly dark smirk. “You ready, sweetheart? I’m gonna fuck that tasty cunt raw.”

You took his outstretched hand and sat up, trying to shove down the hollow feeling that was bleeding through your body.  “How do you want me?”

“Wet and gaping.”, he said in a soft, dark tone. He shifted his body and crawled up between your legs, his heavy, firm belly grazing against then pressing into your body. 

Instinctively, one of your hands moved along his side and found his lovehandle, giving it a gentle squeeze.

“So heavy…”, you murmured as he lowered himself further against you and you buried your face into his neck. 

He chuckled softly, and turned his face towards you. His nose nudged along your jaw, encouraging you to look at him. When you did, he smiled warmly. “You’re really into this shit, huh?”

You exhaled, slightly irritated at the call out. “Jesus…”, you scoffed, and with an eyeroll, you pushed yourself up on your elbows causing him to move off you.

“What’s with the attitude?”

The sharpness of his tone caught you off guard, and you froze. Looking up at him, Clint’s brows furrowed and his face stone cold and his large hand grabbed your chin firmly.

“Not sure what you think this is, sweetheart, but you’re in no fucking position to push me off you.” As he spoke, he jerked your chin slightly for emphasis on his words. “You don’t like what I say? Tough shit. Get fucking pissy over it later. Got it?”

You were once again reminded that Clint was someone who collected debts from all sorts of people by his whiplash-inducing attitude shift. You nodded, responding in a quiet, somewhat bewildered manner. “Yeah… I - I got it.”

He gave your chin a gentle squeeze before murmuring, “Good girl.”, then he rolled over onto his back again. 

“Just for that, you’re on top.”, he grinned smugly. “You gotta do the work.”

You huffed quietly to yourself and gracelessly got on all fours and crawled on top, straddling his hips. His almost-hard cock jutted out between your mound and his belly, and Clint grinned, licking his lips, and his eyes were looking at the flimsy bra on your top. His hands were on your hips, fingers gently digging into you. “Come on… show me those tits… I’ll throw in another hundred bucks.”

Once your bra was off and cast carelessly to the floor behind you, Clint’s big hands were on your chest, kneading and groping you. 

“Atta’ girl…”, he muttered under his breath. You could feel his member hardening against you. 

Despite your momentary doubts caused by his shift just moments before, his warm, fat fingers worrying your nipples and watching his arousal for you grow right against you, you couldn’t deny how hot this actually was. A soft moan slipped out of you as your head dipped back and your eyes closed, and Clint responded with one in kind. 

He took a deep breath, hands still on your tits, and spoke in too soft of a voice for what he was about to say. “I know I worked you over already, but if you want that debt down, you’re gonna do as I saw or else this is gonna hurt, sweetheart.”

Just knowing that he wasn’t planning on letting you off easy added to your arousal. “Yeah? You gonna be mean?”

The low, dark chuckle rumbled below you and he pinched your nipple much harder. “You could say that. Gonna get Big Fish’s money’s worth outta you.”

His hands moved off your chest and back down to your hips, digging in a little harder, and he encouraged you to go up then over him. 

“You ever taken a dick this big, baby?”

If you hadn’t really gotten dicked down by less experienced men and knew that as soon as you started this with Clint, you may have rolled your eyes. But there was nothing green about him. Right now, he exuded the confidence only earned by fucking his way through some natural disaster to survive.

“No…”, you responded breathily. 

“You gotta go slow, baby… ease him in…”, he cooed as his hands on your hips nudged you down. 

The tip dipped into your hole, and pushed his foreskin back, causing Clint to suck in a sharp breath through his teeth. “That’s it…”

He must have a virgin kink… you thought to yourself with undeserved hubris, and then you sat down quickly, fully taking him in. Even though you were trying to be sexy and tease him, it was still a lot to take in one fell swoop - almost too much.

“Uh-oh fuck!”, you whined out. He was a lot all at once and you immediately regretted doing it.

“Shhhh… you can take it… you can’t go back now.”

You squirmed and your breathing kept hitching, but his hands held you firmly against him.

He chuckled lowly again. “Not so tough now, are you?”

“Cl-Clint… please… need to m-move!”

“Feel me in there? It’s a lot, huh?”, he cooed patronizingly. “Next time I tell you to listen, you listen, baby.”

He shifted his hips below you, forcing a whimpering moan from you. You’d never felt so full and so helpless and fuck, did it feel good.

“Relax, baby… I’m not letting you move until you relax. Relax that pussy for me.”

Some deep breaths later, Clint let you start to move up and down.

“Slowly… slowly now, baby… we’re in no rush.”

But there was clearly a need for some sort of rush.

You found a pace that worked with one of your hands on his belly, pushing down with every upswing. The other hand gripping his shoulder. Clint moved his hips in time with yours and his sounds were encouraging, but it wasn’t exciting. This wasn’t going to get you off and Clint could tell.

“Okay… enough. This pussy needs to be pounded. Off.”

He pushed you off him, rolled onto his side and swung his legs off the edge of the bed and sat up with a grunt. He stood and groaned, his back stiff from laying on it for that duration. He turned around, and looked you over as you laid back on the bed with your head up and legs open, with a questioning look on your face and your cunt feeling vacant and unsatisfied.

He smiled as he gripped his cock and pumped a few times. “Come’ere.”

You apparently didn’t move fast enough because he reached forward and grabbed your ankle, yanking you towards him. 

“Hands and knees.”

Clumsily, you moved into position, then let out a yelp-turned-moan at the spank he gave your ass. “Fucking pretty, baby.”, he crooned, smoothing his hand over the tender area.

You whined out again, keening, “Clint… please…”

“Needy for this cock, baby? Need it hard?

“Yes… please!”

“Jack ever give it to you like this?”

Even if you hated him bringing Jack up, you couldn’t deny that in this context when you were this desperate it was hot. But he could have hollered a banana bread recipe at you right now and you would’ve probably felt just as resolute.

You shook your head, and Clint grinned. “Yeah… this little pussy needs someone to fuck her right. Not some shitrat.”

With that, he pulled you back against him with one hand as the other guided his cock into you. You hummed out in relief and contentment. 

That peace lasted all of about three seconds before Clint began to pound into you. Harsh and fast, his hips slapped against the back of your thighs and his belly slammed into your ass cheeks. His weight made the force at which he fucked you so much more intense and exquisite. 

“Come on, baby… gimme one…”, he panted. 

You could only respond in jolted bleats, occasionally being about to actually enunciate his name.

One of his hands slinked down underneath you, pressing against your lower belly. “You gotta cum… gotta-fuck… come on, sweetheat…”

The pressure he was putting against you intensified the feeling of him and your arms gave out, dropping your lower half down onto your elbows. Clint was overwhelming every one of your senses and you truly had never been fucked like this.

The hand on your belly moved further down between your legs and felt where he was repeatedly pounding into you, collecting wetness on the tips of his fingers. You then felt him press down and rub your clit and you cried out, burying your face into your mattress. 

“Tha-That’s it… gimme… gimme one… come on… cum for me, lemme feel it…”

Your walls fluttered and spasmed around him and you opened your mouth, forcing out a loud moan as your orgasm bled out from your core throughout your body.

“Oh fuck yes!”, he yelled out breathily. 

His pace began to falter, movement falling out of rhythm, and a few pumps before he stilled, twitching in you and flooding your hole. His body remained pressed against you breathing hard.

He let out a deep breath and pulled out, eliciting a soft, pleading whine from you. He patted your back and hushed you, then hobbled to the bathroom. He returned with a warm, damp hand towel.

Upon his return, Clint nudged you to roll onto your back, and you couldn’t help but comment on the misuse of the hand towel. “That’s not what those are for… they’re for drying your hands, not cleaning up cum.”, you smiled, slightly hoarse.

He returned the same smile to you, and pressed the small, wet towel against you and wiped the insides of your thighs gently, minding his pressure. 

“Yeah, but I’m sure this thing won’t mind being so close to this pretty snatch.” He kept his voice soft. 

You couldn’t help but laugh and watch Clint be so sweet in his half-time aftercare. 

“Does this gentility go for or against the debt?”

He snorted a small chuckle. “No, baby. Just seems decent. Plus, you really do have a very pretty pussy.” He tossed the hand towel over his shoulder and let his large hand cupped your mound. “Really pretty. Tasty, too.”

You stood out in the hallway while Clint was in Big Fish’s office, reviewing the debt and what you had managed to work off. 

“...so that was $1,000, and then $150… and add another $100 for that. Oh and that was $500… and then - what else?... that’s right, $250 for the- the… you know… yeah, that.”

You couldn’t see Clint, but you could imagine how he was sitting back, ankle across his knee and belly on his lap, causally rattling off numbers. 

Then you heard Big Fish interject. “You know, while you were fucking Jack’s girl, we found Jack. He’s downstairs in the basement right now.”

There was silence followed by a subdued, “Oh.”

“Yeah. So now that we have him, you owe this girl for her time.”

Silence again.

“I still get paid for the job, right?”

“You fuckin’ kidding me, Clint?”

“Hey! I’m not - a job is a job, Frank.”

There was a deep sigh followed by some low murmuring. The door then opened and Clint smiled at you before being pushed aside and there he was - Big Fish Morales. 

“Jesus…”, you whispered wide-eyed, looking up at his imposing, fat body.

He coldly stared down at you, eyes raking over your body, then nodded subtly. “Jack fucked up. Too bad you’re Clint’s.”

You paused, tilting your head. “What?”

Clint grabbed your arm and tugged you away from Big Fish, down the hallway and back to his car, quickly pushing you into the passenger seat. Once he’d gotten in the driver’s side, you stared at him. 

“What the fuck was all that about?”

He gripped the steering wheel and sighed, dipping his head down. “I know this is ass backwards…”

He raised his head and looked at you. “... but you’re cute as all get out and I hate this whole modern dating scene.”

Your eyes widened at his audacity. “Are you asking me out???”

“Yes, I am.”

He was staring back at you, neither of you daring to look away and concede. Truthfully, though, how bad could it be? He definitely couldn’t be worse than Jack.

You let out a deep breath and nodded. “Fuck. Sure. Why the fuck not.”

Clint smiled and put his key in the ignition. “And now, I’m taking you to my favourite sandwich place so you can see what a decent one looks like suchly.”

No more tag lists - follow @beefnotes + turn on notifications for fic updates!

[toxicanonymity]

Just a little slice of pwp pie...

Joel Miller x f!reader | Left in Lincoln | 1150

CONTENT: 18+ PWP PIV, anal play, creampie, praise

You were face-down on the bed with your ass in the air. Joel was lapping at your cunt, and after making you come once, his licks began to wander toward your ass. He flattened his tongue and dragged it up across the thin bridge of skin between your holes. He tongued your taint and pressed a French kiss onto it. When his tongue teased your rim, you flinched.

He had told you already... how you needed to love every part of each other. Enjoy every part. How you're supposed to. He had teased it with a wet finger, but this was the first time with his tongue. You were still a little nervous.

“Just one more beautiful part of ya, darlin’. Beautiful as all the others.”

You tried to relax as Joel’s hands gently spread your cheeks, and the air felt cool on your asshole, wet with his saliva. He groaned at the sight of your pretty little hole. Then, his warm, humid breath hit it, and his tongue went to work again. He kneaded your cheeks and moaned into your ass as he tasted it. His effusive enjoyment put you at ease. The more you relaxed, the more the pleasure shot through your body.

He pulled his head back and you heard him gather saliva in his mouth before spitting on your hole. He wedged a thumb halfway in, slowly wriggling it until it was comfortably plugging you.

You let out a whine and buried your face in the pillow.

“Good girl,” he gushed, his voice wrecked with want. “You're doin’ so good, baby.”

An appreciative whine was caught by the pillow, and your hips tilted just a bit, hoping to tempt him with your other, juicier hole.

“God damn, you–oh, God you make me so hard, baby.”

You were already throbbing at the tightness of him plugging your ass, and now you were melting at his voice. The primal need in his low timbre dripped with a sweet coat of affection. Your cunt was fluttering around nothing, aching to be filled.

You knew all you had to do was ask. You turned your head to rest your cheek on the pillow.

“Joel? Please–i want you inside,” you requested.

“Oh, baby,” he moaned. “In here?” He wiggled the thumb in your ass.

“No, not… not yet” you answered. “My other hole jut feels so empty…”

Joel groaned at your words. “Oh darlin’,” he sucked air in through his teeth. “I can see how bad ya want it.”

You were going to be dripping all over the bed if he didn't fill you with his cock soon enough.

Without taking his thumb out of your ass, he got up on his knees and his stiff cock slapped against your inner thigh, sending a bolt of arousal through your. He ran his tip through your dripping folds, then lined himself up and began to push in. His girth was still so much for you. So much to feel, so much to comprehend. As the crown of his broad tip breached your front door, you gasped.

“Good girl,” he whispered, inching into you with care, pushing you apart. His thumb stayed planted in your ass as his cock slowly divided your walls. Then, with his free hand firmly holding your hip, he slid into place, fully sheathing his stiff length in your warmth. Seated fully in your tight, wet cunt, he marveled at how well you took him.

“Peaches, baby—Ohh, God in heaven…”

His fingers held onto the plush of your ass cheek with his thumb still plugged in the hole. He pulled his hips back, withdrawing a few inches, watching your pussy grip his length, begging to have him all the way in again.

“God damn,” he whispered, then slammed into your cunt, and his balls swung with the impact. A sweet little grunt escaped your lips, taking with it all the air in your lungs. The impact made your heart skip a beat. He was so careful, but he was a big man, strong, with a powerful lust for you and only you, and in moments like those, you realized how much he’d been holding back. He'd unleash himself bit by bit, in little moments that left your heart thumping and head spinning and echoed in your cunt.

The next stroke of his cock was less of a punch, but no less deep. A smooth intrusion into your depths. After bottoming out, he paused to whispered, “I’m so proud of you, baby.” Then, he ramped up to a steady rhythm.

He pounded your pussy as well as he knew you could take it, holding your ass for leverage with his thumb keeping you full.

His cock was so stiff and wet with your slick, filling your body just right. He grunted as he buried his length in you. His hips moved faster, and the frag of his tip nudged a special spot in your core, making you dizzy in the chest and nervous in the tummy. Pressure built, and he encouraged you, “Yeah, you're doin’ so good, baby, so close, lemme have it, sugar, lemme–ohh, ugh.”

You gushed with a moan, and whimpered as your walls clamped down around his cock and your whole earthly body was overcome with bliss. Your knees weakened with pleasure, but he held you steady with his thumb.

“Ohh, fu–oh, baby,” he panted, his voice bumpy with the impact of his quick thrusts, fucking you through it until he couldn't hold back anymore. He slowed down and slid all the way into your gushing, fluttering hole, bottoming out just in time to finish. The eruption in your belly felt was massive. His bursts were hugged by your own spasms, and his grunts turned into sighs as you milked his cock, draining his balls dry.

Tears and sweat were wetting your pillow, and after a long pause, when he gently pulled out, the twinge of loss only lasted a moment. His thumb slid out, and he gave your bottom an affectionate squeeze, then he covered your body with his. Caging you to the bed, he let some of his weight onto you. Warm and heavy and reassuring.

His wet cock, still hard, pressed against your skin. He let his forehead sin into the pillow, temple against yours, hand on your back of your head. Then he turned his face toward you and asked, “You know how much I love you?”

And you turned your head enough to peek at his dark eyes, and nod.

“I love you, too,” you whispered with wet eyes and a little smile.

“C'mere.” He kissed you on the cheek, then the lips, taking a long drag of air in through his nose before releasing your mouth. Then he settled into bed half on top of you with his leg over yours, hand on your far shoulder, stroking your back with his thumb.

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Thank you for reading 🖤🍑

NOTE: Please call your senators about HR 1. This wk I'll have Voicemail Happy Hours for the cause.

[oceantornadoo]

betrayal (simon riley x f!reader)

in the same universe as two lieutenants

--

"what the fuck, simon."

you slammed down a stack of papers on his desk. he tilted his head up, eyes moving fast as they read what was in front of him. leaning back, he crossed his arms and spread his legs in his desk chair, the picture of composure. "use your words, lieutenant."

you scoffed, unbelieving. "i put in a transfer and you deny it? we're the same rank, you shouldn't even be able to do that." he shrugged, eyes darting away. guilty. "don't know what yer talkin' about. same rank, remember?" you rolled your eyes, feet starting to pace his office floor out of anger. "i thought we were friends, simon." you stopped, the hurt swelling into your words. all your emotions hit at once. betrayal. sadness. you thought he'd be different. "and- and then i see this?" you swiped a hand angrily at your eyes, wiping away the tears before they formed. "what, you just want to hold me back? i want to be a captain and i can't be one on this team. you know that."

he knew that because of late nights in his room over tea, sharing deep secrets. you on his bed, him in his extra chair, whispers exchanged in the dark of the night. the trust you put into your fellow lieutenant was unimaginable, the weight of it immeasurable. your foolish mistake had come to bite you in the ass.

"dove, 's not what you-"

"don't you dare call me that." your finger up against his chest, accusing. his nickname for you too hurtful for you to hear right now. "lovie, let me explain i-" you turned around, heading for the door. done with this bullshit.

and then suddenly you were up against the door, simon's masked hand covering your mouth. he wasn't even breathing hard, the exertion barely making a dent in his stamina. he towered over you, eyes shining through his eyeblack and his simple black balaclava. the thumb of his hand covering your mouth brushed your jaw, a soothing motion to calm you down. "gonna be a good girl and listen?" his thigh was wedged in between your legs, mostly to keep you from bolting, but he used it to emphasize his words. you felt wetness pool in your underwear, your body betraying your mind. you rolled your eyes, but after seeing his facial expression not change, you finally nodded. he took his hand off your mouth, brushing your cheek before leaving it, his thigh forgotten between your legs.

"i denied it 'cause i'm a selfish bastard." your eyes widened in shock. confusion. were you right? "i just-" he took a breath, hand reaching to run through his hair before realizing he had his mask on. he yanked it off, throwing it to the side.

"i just wanted you to myself, ok? heard the team you applied for was gonna go dark for years in russia in an undercover op. and i can't-" his eyes seared into yours, both sets of pupils dilating in the moment. you understood.

"you won't lose me, simon." you reached your hand to run it through his hair, dirty blond strands easily passing through. you both stood there for a moment, taking comfort in the fact that this thing you two had was finally being addressed.

"i can't. after everythin', it's jus- not you too. can't lose you, dove." his masked hands cradled your face, glad your physical friendship boundaries were finally being crossed. you gave him a sad smile.

"i know you want captain. i asked 'round and there's other teams open. closer. was gonna tell you this afternoon but got interrupted." by you, choosing to believe he was like all the men before, who wanted to make you small so they felt big. by you, choosing to protect yourself first, not in the wrong but not optimistic either.

"ugh, you're the worst." fuck, had he gotten in wrong? this whole thing wasn't what he'd planned. the whole confession wasn't in the cards, and now he was paying for it. except-

except you were pulling him in for a hug, standing on your tippy toes so you could wrap your arms around his broad shoulders. his hands immediately rested on your waist, the feel of it so foreign and yet so right. this was the first time you'd ever embraced him like this, so open and emotional. he memorized the feel of you in his arms, just in case, always just in case, then let himself live in the moment. he dug his face into the crook of your neck, sniffing the scent of your contraband shampoo, the scent that chased him in his dreams and nightmares. his thumbs caressed your skin, drawing circles into your waist.

"yer it for me, you know? you see it now? but if you need to choose between me and captain, i get it." he waited for your answer with bated breath, squeezing you tighter in case you turned him down. in case it was his last chance.

you answered with a peck to the side of his head, making simon all warm and fuzzy inside. "you're mine too, idiot. i can still make captain without going to russia." finally, he relaxed. the hug had gone on for longer than necessary at this point, but he didn't want to let you go. slowly, you pulled back, making eye contact. "so when are you taking me out on a real date?"

--

this is for the girlies guys and pals who have always had to feel like they had to choose between a man and a career. with the right man, you deserve both! (i wouldn't know i'm just a hopeless romantic trapped in a college town but i'm trusting what the books say.)

[raekensluver]

ᴅᴀʏ 𝟶𝟺 — ᴛʜɪɢʜ ʀɪᴅɪɴɢ

october 7th | aaron hotchner x fem!reader

contains: nsfw 18+, no use of y/n, thigh riding, praising, porn without plot.

word count: 1.0k

kinktober masterlist | main masterlist

you could feel the heat radiating from aaron's body, the warmth of his skin searing through the layers of clothing that separated you. your hands roamed over his broad shoulders, feeling the muscles tense and release beneath your fingertips as he adjusted his hold on you. his breathing grew ragged, matching yours, and you knew that he was feeling the same all-consuming desire that was coursing through your own body.

his hand slipped under your shirt, his fingertips grazing the soft skin of your stomach. the contact sent a bolt of electricity through you, making your hips jerk against his thigh. the wet spot on your panties grew larger, the fabric sticking to your cunt as your arousal pooled. you could feel the beginnings of a dampness spreading on his dress pants, and the realization that you were affecting him so viscerally was intoxicating.

you pulled back for a moment, your eyes searching his for any sign of hesitation. but all you saw was a mirror of the desire that was burning in your own gaze. his eyes were dark with want, his pupils dilated with lust. without a word, you reached down and began to unbutton his shirt, your trembling hands exposing the tanned, well-defined chest that lay beneath. your palms flattened against his bare skin, feeling the rapid beat of his heart.

his hands gripped your waist firmly, guiding you onto his thigh. you moaned into his mouth as the pressure increased, the fabric of your panties providing little barrier to the heat of his skin. he shifted slightly, adjusting his position so that his leg was more firmly wedged between yours. the friction was exquisite, and you moved your hips in a slow, deliberate circle, relishing the sensation.

his hands slid up to your ribcage, his thumbs tracing the line of your breasts just above the fabric of your bra. the anticipation was agonizing, a sweet torment that had you arching your back and pressing closer to him. he broke the kiss to trail his lips down your neck, nipping gently at the sensitive skin just below your ear. you gasped, your nails digging into his shoulders as his hands finally cupped your breasts, squeezing gently before thumbing your hardened nipples through the material.

his touch was like a brand, searing your skin with the heat of his desire. your movements grew more urgent, your hips grinding against his thigh in a silent plea for more. the dampness between your legs grew, the fabric of your panties now completely soaked. you could feel his own arousal, straining against the confines of his pants, and the knowledge that you had this power over him was a heady aphrodisiac.

"you're so wet for me," he murmured, his voice thick with lust. "are you going to cum like this?"

his words were like a bolt of lightning, illuminating the darkened room and sending a jolt of excitement through your body. your cheeks flushed with arousal as you nodded, unable to form coherent words. his praise was a sweet symphony to your ears, fueling the fire that raged within you. you could feel the tension coiling tighter, your body poised on the edge of an exquisite precipice.

he chuckled, a low, dark sound that sent shivers down your spine. "you're so beautiful when you're like this," he whispered, his breath hot against your neck. his hands moved to the clasp of your bra, deftly releasing it. the fabric fell away, revealing your breasts to the cool air. his eyes raked over them, a look of pure admiration in his gaze. "so perfect," he murmured, before leaning in to claim one with his mouth.

his tongue swirled around your nipple, sending waves of pleasure crashing through you. your back arched, pushing your breast further into his mouth as you moaned his name. his praise was like a drug, heightening every sensation until you felt like you were floating on a cloud of pure ecstasy. you reached up, tangling your fingers in his hair, holding him closer as he switched to the other breast, giving it the same exquisite attention.

the pressure between your legs was unbearable, the friction of your soaked panties against his thigh driving you wild. your hips moved faster, chasing the release that was just out of reach. aaron's hand slid down to grip your hip, holding you in place as he grinned against your skin, knowing exactly what he was doing to you. "that's it," he encouraged, his voice a low rumble. "cum for me, baby."

his thumb found your clit through the wet fabric, applying just the right amount of pressure. the world around you faded away, leaving only the two of you and the pulsing need between your legs. your moan grew louder, his name falling from your lips like a prayer. "aaron," you gasped, your voice trembling. "yes, yes, yes."

his mouth moved to your other breast, his teeth grazing the sensitive peak. your eyes rolled back in your head as your orgasm crested, your body shuddering with pleasure. his strong hands supported you, holding you tightly as your legs gave out. the muscles in his arms flexed, keeping you from falling as you rode the wave of ecstasy. your hips bucked against his thigh, the friction sending you spiraling over the edge.

you moaned his name, the sound a desperate plea that seemed to echo in the quiet room. the tension in your body released in a cascade of sensation, your muscles tightening around nothing as you came. he held you through it all, his own desire palpable in the tension of his grip. as the tremors subsided, you leaned heavily against him, panting for breath.

his thighs, thick and strong, remained firm beneath you, unyielding even as your body had been reduced to a trembling mess. the feeling of his muscles against your soaked panties was almost too much, but you couldn't bring yourself to move away. his hands smoothed over your back, his thumbs tracing soothing circles as you caught your breath. the room was thick with the scent of arousal, your cheek rested against his chest, the steady thump of his heart a comforting beat that matched the rhythm of your own.

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