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its3nvy · 5 months

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"Wear the hat, ride the cowboy" Billy the Kid

Summary: After drawing the wrong kind of attention at the saloon, Billy comes to your rescue. Having to pretend to be his for the night, which leads to a ‘wear the hat, ride the cowboy’ situation ;)

Tags/warnings: mdni (18+), porn with no plot, angst, size kink, riding cock, overstimulation, fingering, breeding kink, creampie, unprotected sex, rough sex, dirty talk, slight knife kink

Note : This is my first time ever writing smut and I haven't edited it a lot so this should be fun. (Tell me if it's good or not pls)

tags: f!reader, smut

word count: 3.7k

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Curiosity led you to the local saloon one evening, where Billy often engaged in poker games. The air inside was thick with the smoky residue of cigars, and the occasional clinking of glasses underscored the distant melody of a forlorn piano. As you pushed through the creaking doors, your presence hung in the air, drawing the gaze of rough patrons whose eyes bore into you with a kind of familiarity you had never known. Unaccustomed to the bold gazes and suggestive comments that swirled around you like a threatening storm, you sought refuge at the bar. A man behind it was taking someone’s order.

You looked around, your eyes finally found Billy's familiar frame, surrounded by a haze of cigarette smoke, engaged in a high-stakes poker game.

“Hello, darlin’,” a drunken man stumbled toward you.

“Hello, sir,” you gave him a small smile, trying to avoid his intense stare.

He leaned against the bar to keep his balance. “Come on, darling, don’t be such a prude. Talk to me.” His hand reached up, attempting to caress your face.

From afar, you saw Billy, his eyes—usually mischievous and full of life—met yours with a fleeting recognition. Without uttering a word, he rose from his chair, his cowboy boots echoing a heavy cadence on the worn wooden floor.

The drunken man's intrusive advances persisted, his slurred words creating an uncomfortable tension. "Don’t play hard to get, honey. I can show you a good time," he insisted, his hand becoming more insistent. Ignoring the drunkard, you turned back to the bar, hoping for intervention. The man persisted, his persistence turning aggressive. As his hand encroached upon your personal space, a shadow fell over you.

Billy's presence loomed, his gaze colder than the steel of his revolver. Without a word, he grabbed the man's hand, his grip firm and unyielding. “Leave her alone," Billy's voice cut through the clamor of the saloon, his words echoing with a subtle menace.

The tension escalated, a palpable undercurrent surging through the room. The patrons, sensing the imminent storm, shifted uneasily. Billy's eyes held yours, a silent reassurance amid the brewing chaos. The drunk man, now confronted by the notorious gunslinger, stumbled backward, a mixture of recognition and fear contorting his expression. With a final warning glare from Billy, he slinked away into the crowd.

Billy turned towards you, his eyes softening as if to assure you that the storm had passed.

"What in the hell are ya doin’ here?", he murmured, his tone both gruff and concerned as he reached you, seizing your hand and guiding you to the quiet side of the room. "I needed to go out, Billy," you replied, your voice carrying a note of defiance and desperation.

He hissed, a trace of irritation etching lines across his rugged features. "You can’t. You gotta go home. These people here are dangerous," he warned.

"And you don’t think me leaving alone would be dangerous?" you shot back, your gaze a defiant challenge to the protective facade he wore like impenetrable armor.

"Shit," he conceded, his irritation mingling with a begrudging acceptance of your undeniable truth. "Alright, I’m finishing up my round, and then we can go," Billy relented, his tone an admission of defeat. "But you play along with me, ok? If they don’t think you're claimed, they'll see you as fair game," he said, his gaze locking onto yours with an intensity that cut through the smoky haze, demanding an unspoken oath.

“Ok,” you huffed out.

He pulled you towards his table with a rough yet oddly comforting grip, a silent acknowledgment that, for a fleeting moment, you were to be sheltered from the men surrounding you as long as you stayed with him. "Wait," he murmured, his hand lingering on yours. With a swift motion, he removed his hat, worn and weathered from a life on the precipice.

You extended your hand to stop him. "Billy, you can’t," you insisted, your voice barely more than a whisper, laden with the implications of his gesture. “You know what this means.”

"That’s the point," he declared, his crooked grin returning like a bittersweet promise of protection. As he placed his hat on your head, it became a proclamation, an unspoken claim made before the watchful eyes of everyone present, and a promise of a heated night that lingered in the air like an unspoken secret.

"Now, c’mere," he commanded, pulling you towards him as he settled into his chair, drawing you onto his lap. You bit on your lips, a mixture of anticipation and fear, the heat rising to your cheeks as the proximity between you tightened like a coiled spring. This was the first time Billy had been so close, and the magnetic pull of his presence ignited an unfamiliar fire within you.

He looked up at you as you bit your lips, his gaze a silent acknowledgment of the unspoken tension that hung thick in the air.

As he resumed his poker game, you felt his breath against your neck. "Pass me the whiskey, doll," he asked.

You leaned against the table, inadvertently pulling your hips tighter into his pelvis, sensing his hardness between you. His hands reached out against your hips, gripping you and keeping you still. "Careful," he warned against the shell of your ear, his breath raising goosebumps along your neck, a sensation that heightened the electrifying energy between you.

As you handed him the glass, he took a swig, and then, with a deliberate slowness, leaned down against the side of your neck, planting a lingering kiss. "Thank you, doll," his gravelly voice murmured, the aroma of whiskey lingering in the air.

Billy's fingers grazed lightly along your waist, sending a cascade of sensations through your body. His gaze met yours once more, a silent invitation lingering in his eyes. It was then that you became acutely aware of the speculative glances from the patrons, their curiosity fueled by the undeniable connection unfolding before them.

The weight of Billy's hat on your head felt like both a shield and a beacon, marking you as his amidst the prying eyes of the saloon.

The night passed on and as the final hand of poker concluded, Billy rose from his seat, still holding you close. "Wrapping it up for the night, boys. See ya tomorrow," he declared, his voice a mix of weariness and determination.

He grabbed your hand, guiding you out with a certain urgency. The saloon doors swung open, thrusting you back into the harsh glow of moonlight. As you stopped in front of his horse, he turned around and said, "What the hell were you thinking, coming here alone? You know how they treat women here."

His words cut through the night air, a mixture of concern and frustration etched on his rugged features. The distant sounds of revelry from the saloon formed a dissonant backdrop to the charged atmosphere between you.

You met his gaze, a swirl of emotions reflecting in his eyes. "I just wanted to have one free night, Billy. Just one," you replied, your voice carrying a note of desperation. Billy's jaw clenched, a silent acknowledgment of the dangers lurking in the shadows. "This ain't the place for that, especially not for someone like you," he muttered, his grip on your hand tightening as if to emphasize the point.

The weight of his words hung in the air, and for a moment, the world seemed to stand still. The moonlight cast shadows across his face, revealing the hardened resolve etched into his expression. "I can't have you wandering into places like this, doll," he continued, a trace of vulnerability underlying his gruff tone. "It's too damn dangerous."

Billy sighed, a heavy exhale that seemed to release the tension in the air. "Let's get you home," he said, his voice softened. With a final glance back at the saloon, you moved towards his horse. As you approached, he placed his hands on your hips, lifting you onto the horse with a gentle yet firm touch. You instinctively grabbed his forearm for support, your eyes locking in a shared moment of intimacy.

The ride home was a silent journey through the cool night air, the rhythmic hooves of the horse creating a steady cadence. You sat in front of Billy, the warmth of his body enveloping you, his strong arms encircling your waist as you traversed the dimly lit trails.

As the horse navigated the uneven terrain, Billy's embrace tightened slightly, offering both stability and reassurance. His chin rested on your shoulder, his warm breath tickling your neck, and in that intimate proximity, the weight of your unspoken desires lingered like an invisible thread weaving through the darkness.

Arriving at your doorstep, Billy helped you dismount, his touch lingering for a moment longer than necessary. Your eyes met, a complex tapestry of emotions woven between you. He spoke, his words a whisper carried away by the night breeze, "Be more careful, doll. This world ain't kind, especially to those with a heart as tender as yours." He placed his hand against your cheek, caressing it lovingly.

"Billy," you responded, the ache in your voice carrying a mixture of gratitude and longing. He placed a loving kiss on your forehead, his touch a hushed plea for silence. "Go to sleep, doll. I'll come by tomorrow morning," he whispered, giving you a kiss on the forehead, turning away.

"Billy, wait," an urgency surged within you, desperate to find a reason for him to stay. You took off your hat, intending to return it to him, a feeble attempt to anchor him in the moment. “Keep it. I prefer it on you,” he remarked, a bittersweet acknowledgment that stirred emotions too complex to unravel.

Locked in a gaze that spoke volumes, you inched toward him, a silent plea lingering in the air. As your fingers tightened around the hat, a palpable tension filled the space between you. His intense blue eyes held yours, revealing a tumult of unspoken struggles and desires. Your gaze shifted to his lips—slightly chapped yet irresistibly inviting.

Closing the distance, you reached him, and, without hesitation, pressed your lips against his. The kiss was a desperate plea, an attempt to convey the emotions that words couldn't capture.

Billy's initial surprise melted into a shared passion, and for a moment, the world around you faded. His arms encircled you, pulling you close as if trying to etch the moment into his memory. As the intensity deepened, you let go of the hat, your hands finding their way to his jaw, pulling him even closer. He tasted your soft lips and felt your warm skin. He pulled away slightly, breath mingling with yours, lips lingering, an anguished pause in the silent night.

"Fuck, doll," he groaned, your foreheads leaning against one another, his hands gripping the fabric on your waist. You looked up into his eyes, witnessing the inner battle reflected in his gaze as he grappled with the decision to restrain himself or not.

You approached your lips to his cheek, giving him a slight peck, when you heard him whisper, "Fuck it." His lips crashed to yours, hungry, hot, and demanding, stealing your breath in a heated rush. His hand came up, cupping your jaw, angling your head to deepen the kiss as he slicked his tongue inside your mouth.

“Come, let’s go inside, yeah?” He asked. You nodded at him, as he gave you a quick kiss, ushering you inside, “good girl.” And in an instant, he’s moving toward you, wrapping his arms around your body and pressing you to his chest. You press your lips to his and moan at the taste of Whiskey. His tongue slides over yours in slow strokes that make your cheeks warm, but it’s when his teeth nip at your bottom lip that a whine escapes.

His rough, calloused hands drop to the cusp of your neck, gripping your hair just tight enough to make you hiss. You arch into his touch as he starts to explore your body, mapping out every dip and curve.

“Billy- Please… do something.” He moans a response into your neck as his lips slip down to leave love bites along the column of your throat.

Eager to feel you, Billy tried to pull at the strings of your corset, but to no avail. It was too complicated to remove in the dark, and with the emotions aptly blinding him, Billy had no patience to try.

In the dark, you heard a flick of a knife, and you felt a cold tip of the blade against your skin before Billy’s voice comforted you, “Be a good girl and don’t move, ok?”

A rip ran through the air as Billy sliced your corset in half from the back. You stayed perfectly still, trusting him completely to cut the clothing off of you without harming you at all. The moment Billy had cut your corset, he dropped it to the floor and pulled your top off with it.

He immediately lets his hands drop to your breasts, nipples already pebbling from the cool air. He pinches and pulls at them for only a moment before he’s trailing kisses down your stomach.

Bilily stops just above your hip bones, “May I?” he asks, blue eyes peering up at you. “Yes. Billy, please.” You beg him, voice thick with desperation. He chuckles and then rubs his hand over your throbbing clit. He slides one, then two thick fingers into your dripping pussy. A whimper bubbles from your swollen lips as he pulls back to spit on your heat. His fingers curl, digits stretching and scissoring inside you. Your head feels like it’s spinning, arousal leaking from your cunt and down Billy’s fingers.

Your hips are unable to escape his assault on your g-spot when he pins you down, and you let out a moan you hardly recognize as your own. “Shit, you’re so wet.” His teeth catch his bottom lip as he smiles down at your fucked-out form.

Billy’s hand never slows, even as he grinds his palm into your poor clit. You cum not long after, waves of pleasure crashing over and drowning you in euphoria. Your body is trembling as you come back to Earth and Billy is there, watching you from between your thighs. He places a kiss on your sensitive clit before he stands back up, towering over you.

“Please. Fuck me, Billy.” You say through heavy breaths. He feels his head spin at the sound of your voice.

“Whatever you want, doll.”

Billy lays you across the couch and crawls over you, leaning back to release his aching cock from the confines of his pants. Saliva pools in your mouth at the sight of him, pre-cum drips from his flushed, red tip.

He fists his cock at the sight of you below him, lips parted and breasts heaving. Billy leans his body over yours, trapping you between him and the cushions below you. You can feel the muscle covering his torso press against your tummy. He ruts his cock through your pussy, the head catching on your clit deliciously. You both moan at the feeling and link your fingers together.

“Fuck, you’re so perfect. I’m gonna make you all mine”, Billy coos down at you, searching your face for any hesitance. You nod at him, earning you a keen smile and a quick kiss. “It’s gonna hurt, doll, I’m sorry.” Squeezing his hand, you hold your breath when he lines himself up with your entrance.

You gasp when his tip slips into you, already feeling like he’s split you in two. Salty tears start to well in your lash line at the burn of Billy’s cock stretching you out for the first time. He’s much bigger than you anticipated and you dig your nails into his skin.

“I know, I know. Just breathe.” He tries his best to comfort you, gritting his teeth at the feeling of your cunt around him. His heart stings at the sight of you crying for reasons other than pleasure, but he can’t help it when his hips buck, pushing himself another inch deeper.

Billy knows he should feel guilty for liking the way you screw your eyes shut, the way your cunt flutters around him even though he’d worked you open already. He’s not even halfway inside you and your legs are trembling around his waist while he holds himself back from pushing in balls-deep. He can’t help but feel a sense of pride swell in his chest at the effect he has on your body.

Billy’s hand leaves yours and drops to your clit, rubbing tight circles with his thumb. Your mouth opens into an “O” shape and your sloppy cunt grants him another inch. He can feel the velvet of your walls drawing him deeper, euphoria building in your veins. With every circle drawn, Billy pushes in further and further until he’s finally buried to the hilt. He stills for a moment, letting your cock-drunk mind play catchup with your body. “I’m gonna move, is that ok, doll?”

He pulls out, making you whine at the empty sensation, then, he’s driving his hips forward again. You loop your arms around his neck as he attacks your insides. Any words you have die on your tongue as Billy sets a rough, passionate pace. His tan skin, covered in old and new scars, feels slick against yours as his cock splits your mind in half. You can feel Billy everywhere, you can taste him, touch him, smell him, see him. He’s completely overwhelmed your senses and given you nothing to think about other than him.

The air around you is humid and thick, the scent of sex swimming through it. Billy slips in and out of you with ease, the clear strings of your slick and his pre-cum coat your pussy lips like a gloss. You let your gaze fall on him, watching how his brows furrow with concentration while he molds your insides into the shape of him.

Billy lifts your hips in the air to get an angle that allows him to hit even deeper, pumping his cock into you so hard that the air is forced from your lungs. There’s no one else you could want, no one else who could ever make you feel like this.

“Shit Billy. I’m so close.” You moan, a familiar warmth starting to coil in your tummy. He nods and slots his lips against yours for one final kiss. His tongue explores your mouth as his dick strikes your g-spot, sending you headfirst into bliss. You cum hard as every nerve in your body is set aflame. His hot, sticky cum floods your walls and leaks from around his cock.

Silence lies thick in the air aside from your heavy breathing and the soft kisses you share. Billy leans back to peer down at where you’re connected and shakes his head at you.

He picks you up and places you over his hips, leaning you back. “Can’t waste this, doll.” He tuts at you, gathering the cum leaking from your abused pussy on his tip and pushing it back in. Throwing an arm behind his head, a fucked-out grin crosses his features as you sink down on his cock, letting him rub against your most sensitive spots. A strangled moan sounds in the back of your throat as he slowly pushes back into the deepest parts of your cunt.

His tongue darts out to lick the sweat off of his cupid’s bow, large hands moving to slide down your hips to grab at the fat of your ass. He guides you up and down on him as you babble and cry.

“I’ve got you, doll.” His words send a shiver down your spine and you brace yourself on his broad shoulders. Your cunt flutters around him, “Fuck Billy’-” you cry out.

Billy groans at the sight of a white ring around his shaft, made from a mixture of his and your cum. “So tight… taking me so fuckin’ well.” He bucks his hips, tip grazing your g-spot just right, just enough to make your eyes roll up into your head. “C’mon, doll.”

He leans forward to press a kiss to your forehead, then captures your lips with his. He swallows every moan and hiccup as he pounds into you, only slowing when you clench impossibly tighter around him. Stars are dancing in your vision and pleasure is burning in your veins. You hear him swear again, he lets his head fall back onto the cushions and plants his boots flat on the floor. You nearly scream as he fucks back up into you. He’s growling something in your ear, but his words sound so far away.

“Cum on my cock, doll. C’mon, do it. Do it for me.” Billy babbles in your ear as he loses his rhythm, now just slamming his hips into yours with all the force he could muster. Your arms are clinging to his neck and he has you trapped against him. White, hot pleasure hits you like a ton of bricks as you squirm on Billy’s lap. His teeth sink into your shoulder as he pumps his hot, sticky cum into your womb.

He lays back on the couch, letting you rest against his chest. With a tender touch, he leaned down, pressing a soft kiss on the top of your hair. His lips lingered for a moment. As he pulled back, his fingers began to stroke your hair slowly, each caress a testament to the unspoken passion that simmered between you.

“From now on, that hat stays on you, doll. Let everyone in town see you belong to me."

send me billy thoughts or requests pleaseee :)

#billy the kid #billy the kid x reader #billy the kid smut #william bonney #coriolanus snow #tom blyth #wear the hat ride the cowboy #save a horse ride a cowboy

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ghosts-cyphera · 7 months

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╰﹒ price's wife = the wife of 141

warnings/content: 18+! 141 x fem!reader. dubcon: sex under the influence of alcohol, unprotected sex, blowjobs, anal, mentions of cum and spit, male masturbation ??? just... everything, really. buckle up, besties. mdni!

being price's cute little tradwife would mean that he'd share you with the rest of 141, too. it wasn't his plan at first: he had never thought of it until he had seen the way that they had all looked at you.

gazes lingering on your frame for just a while too long. tongues wetting their lips as they towered over you, grinning as you laughed, soft and sweet, at something they'd said. your eyes sparkling, your glossed lips tugging into one of those smiles that filled the pit of price's stomach with butterflies each time he saw it on your features.

you knew how to make everyone around you feel special, no matter if you meant to do it or not. and slowly but surely, they all had begun to ask about you: about whether or not you'd be joining them for drinks that evening. about your plans for price's vacation.

"takin' our lass somewhere warm?" johnny grinned, wetting his lips. "send us boys a postcard or a picture of our bonnie layin' on the beach, will ye?"

where price had expected to feel a touch of jealousy, he instead found himself feeling something so much deeper. excitement; burn at the thought of them enjoying you just as much as he did.

you were good, and sweet, and kind.

your love was endless and unconditional: the type of love that healed wounds one didn't know they had in the first place. your lips soft, your eyes twinkling, your touch nothing short of damn heaven: a woman like you made to be loved by so much more than just a single man.

so why not four?

and after months of watching their need for you grow day by day, price gave in.

inviting you to dance with the boys in your living room. grinning, as he encouraged ghost to draw you into his lap: to let his fingers play with yours as you drank yourself silly, your husband handing you a new glass each time you downed the previous one.

price humming with warm agreement, as gaz pulled you to him and let his lips ghost a kiss on your forehead. so soft and gentle, careful to not scare you off.

though his permission for them to touch you had not been explicit, they'd all known: had seen it in the way that he had looked at you and them, brow raised in his amusement.

help yourself to her, lads.

and so, they did.

you were so drunk that your words were slightly slurring: eyes twinkling as the three men were suddenly all over you. his little wife so confused, yet so happy—you always were when you were drunk. so gullible, so easy to influence.

the drunken words of encouragement from their lips tangled together: their hands suddenly all over you, nearly impossible to keep track of.

it was ghost who called you our darlin', wasn't it?

soap who promised to be so gentle with you, not wanting to hurt their little lass. wanting to make sure that you could take it all.

gaz whose hands were kneading your hips, as his lips brushed against your earlobe. 'gonna fuck you so good, love.'

your gaze searched for that of price, yet all he did was raise an amused brow with a cigar hanging from his lips. lounging on the couch of your living room, cock pressing against the soft material of his pants.

be good, his eyes told you. make your husband proud, bunny.

and so you did. working so damn hard on your knees: the three greedy men taking their time with you as they fucked your throat in turns, grinning as they watched your mascara run down your pretty little cheeks. price's little wife exhausted yet glowing: eyes looking up at them as they slapped their cocks against your cheeks and watched you suck and lick on their balls, drops of precum messing up your pretty hair.

so fucking good for them, weren't you?

price's good little wife.

their sweet little slut.

though your thoughts were clouded from the alcohol rushing through your system, your body responded in all the ways that you knew made price proud of you. your thighs glimmering with your arousal, your lips parting in the warmest and softest of moans and gasps, as their hands palmed your throbbing cunt and tore off your panties and dress.

so greedy in the way that they forced your breasts on full display. mouths and hands attacking your sensitive nipples: low, rumbling laughs making you clench your thighs together, as you struggled to stay standing from the way that they were passing you between the three.

faster than you understood, you found yourself perched up on the coffee table. on your hands and knees, eyes aligned with those of price, as his hand moved to your lips.

"spit, sweetheart."

you did: your brows furrowing as price used your spit as lubricant, his hand moving to his cock as he laid back on the couch and touched himself.

touched himself to the sight of his squad mates going to fucking town with you. a cock—whose, you did not know nor did it matter—sliding into your drenched cunt, merciless in the way that it stretched you wide and open with a single snap of his hips. another one at your mouth, pressing against it: sliding in, impatient, as soon as you parted your lips. burying itself deep down your throat.

"keep your eyes open, bunny," price groaned, voice touched with dark amusement. "the boys wanna see you when they fuck you, don't they? wanna see what a damn good woman they've got."

the tip of johnny's cock pressed against your second hole, and your eyes widened from the realization.

"it's not her first time," price chuckled, eyes never leaving yours. "she's never taken one in each hole, but she can handle it. can't you, love?"

your brows knitting, you nodded your head. no use in trying to talk with gaz's cock pushing deeper down your throat—his fingers tangling in your hair, as johnny pushed in.

inch by inch as you focused on your breathing: your eyes locked with those of your husband. and you managed. of course you managed. you were price's good little wife, and his good little wife was made for taking three cocks simultaneously.

was made for pleasuring his friends, now fucking losing it on you. fucking into you as you moaned and mewled: as you came again and again, shaking and sobbing around them. covered in your own arousal and their cum, their spit, and your tears of sheer overwhelming pleasure.

and as they were finally done, it was clear to all five of you.

by then, you were no longer the wife of captain john price.

you were the sweet little wife of the entire 141.

masterlist | requests are open 💌

#what am I doing lmao? I'm logging off for the next three days. I'm off the hinges my loves. off the fucking hinges.#john price x reader #141 x reader #john soap mactavish x reader #simon ghost riley x reader #kyle gaz garrick x reader

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yeyinde · 2 months

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dangle on the leash | Simon "Ghost" Riley x F!Reader

The flimsy sarcophagus housing all his wants, his desires, cracks open when Price announces that his missus is pregnant. Ghost cocks his head in consideration. Intentionally knocking you up is amoral. Probably illegal. Somehow, even more dastardly when the reason for it is simply selfishness. Want. Greed. Hunger. But he's a rabid dog burning with the urge to bite. No one should really be surprised when he finally decides to sink his teeth into you. Unfortunately, that hail mary Price sent into the aether never reached you.

(your bird is too big for a cage— —but maybe a collar would do.)

this is a babytrapping fic lmao but please read the tags carefully. a companion piece to this (Price + babytrapping).

DEAD DOVE. SMUT. 18+

HARD WARNINGS—coercion. dependency. intentional alienation. unsafe, unprotected sex. this very much toes the line of noncon (that is still very dubcon even when consent is given) in many ways, notably: somnophilia, and condom/contraceptive tampering. intrusive, violent thoughts. mentions of violence. manipulation; slight gaslighting. implied kidnapping. references to past abuse (Ghost), brief mention of drugging/threats of drugging (ambiguous as to if it was ever followed through on or not, mostly just Ghost's internal monologue unfiltered). ADDITIONAL TAGS—smut. rough sex. unsafe sex. dom!Ghost. mean, obsessive, unhinged!Ghost. spit kink. dacryphilia.

he's feral, but he's yours. too bad for you, no one is really sure if that's a good thing or not.

One of the things Price often tells new recruits is to shove their old life into a box.

“There's home,” he huffs, fingers twitching as if he's subconsciously flexing around the hilt of a lit cigar. “And then there's work. Whatever box you decide to put this, or your family, your personal life, into is your choice. But for fuck’s sake. Keep them separate.”

Most of the new recruits are fresh off selection, shaded sickly chartreuse, and take his words as a literal gospel. Work, this; home, them. They don't start to unravel the second part of his gruff speech until much later. Until they can't wash the blood from their hands, and the scent of their mum’s eucalyptus hand soap is nauseating. Unfamiliar. When being in civvies feels like wearing skin that doesn't fit, and everyone around you is alien, foreign. They don't know. They'll never know.

It's only when they find themselves gazing at the clock on the wall of their family home, counting down the minutes until their mandatory leave is over do they realise that home is the barracks.

That's something Ghost has always understood. Maybe it was because his home life was already in ruins, tatters. Beer soaking into the knock-off Persian rug a cousin nicked from a flea market when he was nine. No fine china in the cupboards because it'll end up in shards on the floor. Plastic plates and forks and cups. Always. Howling in his head. Screaming from down the hall in his mum's room. His bedroom door creaking open at night. The anger, the curdling fear (shameful—be a man; punch him back, hit him before he hits you, you useless prick—), of not knowing whether or not it was his dad, high as hell and itching for a fight after busting their mum’s lip wide open, or Tommy sneaking into his bed at night because his is soaked in piss and he can’t sleep when they scream at each other like this.

(Funny that, he always found; neither of them could ever sleep when it was silent, either.)

Blood on the linoleum. Trying to eat burnt toast and overcooked beans with a busted lip and a twinge in his jaw—

(Fractured, they'll say later, years later, during his mandatory medical checkup when he's first recruited. Healed all wrong. Son, didn't anyone take you to hospital?)

He understands the separation between home and work—even if the former lost all relevancy nearly a decade ago. Back when he buried them all. Was buried himself—

What Ghost never really understood was the box.

Shove it into a box.

When he asks over cheap whisky somewhere in Siberia, Price tightens his fingers around his glass before bringing it up to his head. His index finger juts out. He knocks the tip of that bruised, scabbed knuckle against his temple. Once, thrice. Levels Simon with a pointed look he both can’t understand and somehow knows all too well.

“Up here."

“Paid nearly fifty quid for that,” he grouses, shaking his head. “Think I've been ripped-off, Price.”

Price scoffs, places the glass down with a hollow thud. “Don't be a fuckin’ muppet, Simon—” his real name makes his shoulders tense. Around the barracks, they know him only as the Ghost. “You put it away somewhere. Hide it. I don't fuckin’ know. But if it keeps you goin’, keeps you sane, and doesn't become a mess I gotta clean up, well—”

The implication is stark. Heavy.

Price was always good at chiselling through layers of accumulated indifference to get to the madness within, but considering Ghost’s past and his mile-long rap sheet, the warning digging into his words like a dull blade isn't unwarranted.

Old dogs, he'd called the pair of them when they first met. There was a sharp keenness in his eye when he lifted his hand, waved his cigar toward the tangled mess of scar tissue crisscrossing his face (made with a dull, rusted knife, one that gouged out deep pocks of skin, ugly fuck, looks like the badlands, don't he? like a postcard from the Grand Canyon, sweetheart. not so cute anymore, are ya, pretty boy—), and said, “well, you're fuckin’ rabid, ain't you? Better put a muzzle on that before it becomes a problem, mm.”

His problem, specifically.

And Ghost gets it. Thinks Price might understand that particular brand of madness—despite growing up on literal opposite sides of the track, his Manchester to the others Liverpool; poverty and prestige—if only just. Because Price seems to be able to curb those baser impulses in a way Ghost hadn't yet mastered (and won't for quite some time yet). He's put together. Sort of. Respected. Normal.

The men in the barracks don't look at him and flinch.

But he sees the way the man's eyes linger in the crowd, shrewd and careless, before falling on the pretty bartender in the back. The one with roses in her eyes and a smile full of dandelions. Soft, like butterscotch. It's here when they darken. When he reaches, almost angrily, for his whisky. Pats his chest with a heavy fist searching for his cigar.

She's a sweet thing, he reckons. All pretty and trusting. Birds like her make his head itch—

“Don't even think about it, Simon,” Price grumbles, and it feels like territorial posturing, a challenge he almost raises to meet with his chin, if only to make Price fluster, but it's hollow. Empty. He denies himself, too. The prick.

“How'd you do it?” He asks, and doesn't specify. Doesn't think he needs to.

When Price swallows, it looks like a grimace. “Years of practice.”

He considers the weight of it, his eyes straying back to the woman behind the bar. She's tucking a strand of hair behind her ear, wrist delicate like bone china, the kind they could never afford, and for a moment, the intrusive thoughts, the ones he gets sometimes about wanting to tear things to bloody pieces, rears—

It's stamped down in a swig of flat lager You stupid fuckin’ mutt, Price would say tomorrow morning, shaking his head. You always think with your prick?

Simon cranks his head sharply to the side instead. The resounding crack seems to echo through the empty pub.

Price just shakes his head. “Christ. No one ever house break you, yet?”

“Yeah, they did,” he rasps, staring at the bartender who gazes back at him now. Skittish, unsure. Not so sweet after all. She looks away, cowed. Her hands tremble. He leans back, and hums. “And now I piss outside, like a good ‘ol boy.” “Ain't nothin’ good about you, Simon. Fuckin' Christ—”

And he's not wrong.

The Ghost has a reputation of being a cold-hearted bastard. A Frankensteinian beast cobbled together with spare parts robbed from a jailhouse graveyard. Worst of the worst. An arm from a mass murder. The leg from a spree killer. Heart a patchwork mess of ichor and sulphur. Sutured together with barbed wire.

It's all sort of macabre. Rather trite, too.

The rumour mill in the barracks is insatiable.

But sometimes, he wakes up and he's still buried. Still dead. Dirt in his throat, lodged in his nose. He breathes in and feels pebbles scraping his lungs. Feels worms in his ears. Maggots in his head.

They crawl through his grey matter. Leeches burrowing into his thoughts, sucking the good in him dry.

Or, whatever's left of it, anyway.

He thinks with his teeth because it's easier that way. Cold, calculative instinct. Just barely boxed into a neat package slapped on the desk of Price's higher-ups.

A good man, they say, and turn him loose on the streets. One of the best we have, as he breaks jaws, and tears through jugulars. A force to be reckoned with.

They hand him a gun, a rifle, when the bloodied footprints leading back to camp become too much of a hassle to clean. Shoot from a distance. He takes to it like the bulk of metal was made for his scarred hands. Scythe to a Reaper.

It feels like bloodletting. Draining him of his anger, his fury, until a cold, gnarled indifference curls in the basin left behind. Icy, frigid. Down to the bone.

Sometimes, he doesn't remember what it felt like to be warm, even buried under a thick balaclava and layers of military fatigues.

Frankenstein’s monster. Patched together from the rotten remains of horrible men.

And as he stares in the mirror at the patchwork ruins of his face, his body, he wonders if there's some truth to it, after all. He's pretty sure if someone cracked his skull open—again—they’d find rot. Tumulus. Infested with maggots and worms. Cobwebs behind his eyes. In his nose. His brain perfectly preserved: a zombified tombstone. And oh, how it hungers.

Wants.

But in a box it goes. One shaped like a coffin. Placed pretty in the back of his broken head.

He stares in the mirror and thinks he sees something moving under his eye. Wriggling around. The temptation to claw it out rears, but the shredded tissue on his thighs reminds him of what happens when he listens to that insidious hiss in the back of his head (some amalgamation of his old man, and that bastard—) and goes searching for gold in bone marrow.

He huffs. Fingers curling around the porcelain. His head is rotten. Putrefied. He can feel the decomposing sludge press against his temples. It grows teeth sharp like a razor blade and hacks away at jaundiced bone. Ghost lifts his hand, digs his fingers into his temple. Down boy—

(Simon doesn't even want to consider what his heart must look like, then.)

Cold-hearted, sure—

But he likes sweet things.

The kind that will undoubtedly give him cavities. A spillover, perhaps, when candy bars were too expensive, and the only dessert he was given was a toffee by the neighbour when she wasn't moaning to his old man about all the shit he and Tommy got up to.

(Bruises came afterwards, the colour of liquorice. Sour cherries.)

Unfortunately for him, sweet things don't like him much—a shame, really. Simon has always had a sweet tooth.

His rough edges are too sharp for their liking, and Simon's—

Intense. Like a dog with a bone, he doesn't know when to let go. When to unhinge his jaw from the morsel between his teeth. He bites hard. Shakes his head. Tears into the things he wants until it's bloodied meat pinched in his incisors.

And so, they keep their distance. Like they can smell the rot on him. The funeral dirt. The stench of an unearthed sarcophagi.

Sometimes, though, the wiley ones will inch closer, looking to get messed up badly by a bad man, and it makes something inside his head howl when he turns them down. Following Price’s creed. Can't give in to the pretty ones, he'd said. Nothin’ but trouble.

Trouble, like a pair of shackles. A noose. Trouble, like gentle, clean hands and fragile bones. Fine china. Fine powder. The marshmallow soft kind of trouble that will melt in the acid that leaks from his pores. Aqua regia. Attacking anything that gets close.

(Breakable, is what Price means. Pretty chew toys that are beyond repair once he's finished with them.

He must think Ghost is some sort of psychopath—)

But still. He stays away. It's easier on base, in safe houses, too far out from the general public to have to worry about doe eyes and soft touches. He doesn't need it, anyway—

Then comes you.

And the forfeiture of his self-control.

You're trouble of a different kind.

Trouble, like the end of a sledgehammer. Trouble, like the grill of a car. The barrel of a gun.

In the shape of a battering ram, one strong enough to dislodge the madness in the back of his head. Where the corrosive acid should ruin you, eat you alive, it doesn't. Not with your tantalum skin.

But oh, do you pack a punch—

At first, you think he's homeless.

Some scruffed-up man sleeping on a park bench outside of your apartment.

In another life, he might have been. He isn't a stranger to bad habits, and had the military not been his only choice in life for some semblance of good (laughable, considering what he does for a living), he could see the threads of his life leading him here. Drugs. Manchester is good for it, this he knows all too well. Especially the shithole neighbourhood he's from.

He doesn't clue into this, though, until you glance at him, warily, and then shuffle into the cafè he’s holed outside of, the place where his current target gorges himself on steeped tea and crumpets.

(Price's dry text sits, open, on his burner phone: and don't fuck this up—)

It feels a bit like an omen. Made worse when you meet his gaze through the glass, and—

Well. Shit.

The impact is a collision. Hitting a pole at top speed. Metal bent around concrete.

His teeth ache (so, so bad—).

You emerge from the small building a few minutes later—the faded eggshell with chocolate trim is nauseatingly sweet against your pastel yellow raincoat—holding a takeaway bag, and balancing a tray of coffees in your hand.

He tenses. It's instinctual. There's nothing about you that's an immediate threat to his person—unless you plan on adding to his scars with the tip of your umbrella, the scalding coffee in your hand—but it's odd, isn’t it? No one approaches him. Not unless they have a reason to.

And no one, in his experience, ever has a good one.

“Hi,” you chirp, disarmingly sweet, as you come to stand in front of him. His jaw aches. Even sprawled across a bench, you're barely looking down at him. Sticky, cold fingers tap a strange rhythm down his spine. “I, um, hope this isn't weird, but I saw you sitting here, and—well. I got this—”

You wiggle the bag. He smells something greasy. A breakfast sandwich, he's sure.

It's an unusual assassination attempt. Price will be livid.

“What for?” He rumbles, sitting up in the seat. The shift of his bulk seems to make you nervous. You take a step back, and he fights the urge to follow. To back you into a corner. No escape.

You regain your footing, even if the smile on your face wobbles. Weakens under his flat stare. Some people can smell the rot on him.

He wonders if you can, too.

(Pity that. You're a pretty bird, ain't you?)

And the way you take him in lacks a distinct thrum of hesitation, fear that’s normally there. It occurs to him, then, that you see him as just another man. Just another person.

(“deader than a doorknob, this one. such a goddamn waste, boss. he was a fun one, wasn’t he? should we burn ‘em?”

nah. bury him out back—)

It's laughable, really. A joke. He has the urge to crack one—sick and awful enough to make that little smile on your face wilt. Wither away. Almost does, too, but it get tangled in his throat when he feels the weight of your stare on him.

The easy sweep of your eyes is barely discrete, but it's clinical. Pitying. But the softened edges of that empathy dissolve as your pretty head adds up all the numbers on him, coming to a standstill. Your eyes linger on his wrist. The gold of his wristwatch peeks out beneath the black sleeve of his hoodie. An intricate web of complex timekeeping that only he's privy to. A little luxury he picked up in Italy when the cash he'd been given was getting too tiresome to carry around.

Dead men, after all, don't need bank accounts.

And then—

You fluster. “Sorry, I just thought—”

It clicks, then. The pity. The soft words. The goddamn coffee—

His gums itch. He has the sudden urge to be mean about it. Pick you apart in this street until nothing but embarrassment and humiliation remains.

“That I was homeless? ‘nd you brought me, what? A coffee? ‘ow sweet of you. Some breakfast, too. Well, aren't you a lovely girl?”

You are embarrassed. It blisters across your expression. Has your hands trembling around the cardboard tray, spilling droplets of coffee down the side. Your head is bowed, cowed in shame. It reminds him of that bartender some years prior. Pulling away when the bad dog growls—

But there's a thin sheen of intrigue in your eyes, burrowing holes into the shoes in front of you; a tangled knot of want coiling in the heat of your embarrassment over this blunder. Over offending him.

Well—

That's new.

Some get off on it. On humiliation. Specifically, of the public variety. He didn't take you as the type. The way you twist, squirming in place, is odd, though. It doesn't fit as well as he originally thought. No. It's not the public shame, but—

Him.

Ah.

Sweet, sweet girl.

(So naïve.)

He reckons he could get you to do just about anything to make it up to him. You would, too. You're soft enough to be submissive, to bow your head in contrition, but there's a flicker of defiance in the jut of your chin when you lift your head.

This is a blunder and you're sweetly embarrassed, sure, but it isn't enough to break you.

And now Simon just wants to ruin you. Teach you a lesson about bad, vile men—

(Something you'd welcome with open arms, wouldn't you?)

“Didn’t know Manchester was so charitable,” he rasps. His throat is dry. Parched. He reaches for the coffee—black, with extra creamer and sugar on the side, tucked neatly in a little bag; fuckin’ hell. Ain't you just adorable—and places it on the spot beside him. “I’ll be takin’ this. Will need it for later.”

You look like you want to protest. Fight back. His hackles rise, ready for it—eager. Something anticipatory, dark, bleeds through the moulted mess of his head. Sickly. Terrible. He thinks about what you'd look like sprawled under him, shaking and begging for more, for him to stop—

Fuck. Birds usually make his head itch, but you make his fucking skin crawl.

In the end, you just huff. Roll your eyes. He wants to chew them out of your head. Pop them between his teeth. He bet you'd taste divine.

You walk away from him before he can. You don't look back once.

Pity, he thinks. Someone's gonna snatch you clean off the streets like that—

Hours later, he sends Price a text message with the coordinates for where to pick up the package Ghost left.

He considers it a blessing when the man sends him back, good job, now get a pint from me as a little reward. Can't say I don't treat my team well.

A reward, huh?

Well. With your stature in comparison to his own, Ghost easily can see you being considered a pint.

So, he follows you home, and tallies this one as being on Price.

It's easy. Too easy. He slips deftly behind you, tucked away from view, and masks his footsteps under the echo of yours until he's standing in the shadows outside of your house. This, too, feels like a blessing. It's a duplex. He waits for one of the lights to flicker on, and—

The window brightens. Room number two.

He hums, and palms his pockets for the pack of smokes he nicked off the man. Needing something to take the edge off. To quell the urge to bite.

It's even easier to engineer meetings. Random run-ins. All blamed on happenstance, chance. Of course. This towering mountain of a man with his thick manc twang—the sort of gallows humour that can only be found in the blue-collar streets of Salford from the nasty old men squatting on the corners—must have better things to do than stalk you. Surely. You're not special enough to be hunted, right?

Still. You're a touch wary of him. Distrustful. You keep your distance—six inches for Jesus Christ, aren’t you a peach?—and try to skirt the line between neutrally polite to the strange man loitering outside of the shops you frequent (your schedule burned to his memory, naturally) and that fascinating skittish intrigue from before. All simmering heat. Blunt want. The kind wrapped up in silk threads.

It's interesting to watch it play out when he steps closer and all those long-forgotten instincts in the back of your head flare up. The shaky step you take back. The inward frown of confusion when you're not sure why your body craves space, acting almost on its own. And then the sweet defiance that breaks over you. The intentional step closer. The feigned warmth in your tone as you talk to him.

It's easy to pocket the uglier aspects of his personality. The coldness. The indifference. The flat, droll insincerity that leaks into his tone. All of it shelved, locked away, and he's not sure if Price would be happy that he listened to what he said, followed his example, or furious that he's bastardising it to lure this pretty fish in.

)The latter, undoubtedly. But Simon gets a sick kick from it all.)

Especially when it brings you closer to him. Thaws you as you rationalise his reaction during the first meeting, gears spinning. Kicking up excuses.

Anyone would be angry, offended. It's natural. He's alright now—

It makes you look at him differently as you forcefully fight the urge to flee.

Silly bird.

Wary eyes rake over his massive bulk. Brows furrow at the series of black medical masks he wears in public. Always. That, in addition to the heavy black of his wardrobe—black jacket, black hoodie, black leather gloves—sometimes makes you glance at him with a touch of worry. Fear. Probably wondering if you brought home a delinquent.

But it changes when he rolls up his sleeves one day after you've been moaning about your broken beach cruiser (the, I don't know, chain—or something—keeps catching—), and crouches down to fix it.

There's a hitch in your breath. A distinct swallow. A guilty tinge of something shy, deliciously so, shading your eyes ruby-red when you look down at him.

And ah—

Sweet little treat snagged on the line. Ain't he a lucky lad?

It's all the better when you do the work for him. Reeling yourself in, practically throwing yourself in his cooler when you ask about his tattoos, carefully—considerately—nudging the topic away from his ugly scars.

He guts you clean as he tells you he's in the military. Top secret, pet. Don't ask because I'd hate to ‘ave to hurt a pretty face like yours—

You preen under it. Pet. Pretty. You don't even notice when he slides his knife over your scales, dices you up on his chopping board.

You're the picture of sweetness when he unkinks the chain in your bike, and sets it straight. All happiness. Smiles. Appreciative glances. You flutter your pretty eyes at him as you say—

“Thank you—”

You're waiting for a name. His belly rumbles. He could eat, he thinks, and licks his teeth.

“Simon. Simon Riley.”

The risk-reward ratio is balanced when you breathe it out between plump lips, chasing the end of it with your tongue. He wants to eat it out of your mouth. Swallow it down.

You touch his arm, hand warm, soft. “If there's anything I can do to pay you back—”

He takes you out for a kebab later on. Nudges you out of the way when you open your wallet to pay. Draft girl. Naïve, too, because he can feel the heat in your cheeks from where he stands, reaching over to snatch the bag from the man with a grunt.

You must think him quite the gentleman. So trusting.

Doesn't matter. He lets it take root. Especially when you shyly invite him back to yours to eat.

He makes a feast of it, and fucks you on your mint green chaisse after he's finished.

(Not on birth control, you say, and hand him a box of condoms, suddenly shy. It's unopened. He hums, and burns that to memory.)

He keeps his distance—an easy feat when he's halfway around the world, and you're stuck in the gloom of Manchester.

It's purposeful, of course. He made a promise to Price not to give him a reason to worry, but fuck—

You're proving hard to quit. He's never had anyone cuff him upside the head on his bullshit. Not anymore, anyway. Not as the Ghost. He likes the thrill of it, of this chase.

You don't let him steamroll you when he's in a mood to fight. You punch back, hitting him right in the mess of his guts, and fuck. Fuck. He's a little bit obsessed with it. With you. This wily little fish that acts so shy when he's got three fingers buried in your cunt, but rides him after like you're starving for it. Clawing at his chest. Scratching his arms. It's raw. Primal. He wants to break you—this fiery little kitten that bites his fingers until they bleed, and then purrs in his lap as he drives a pickaxe through your head, shredding logic into pieces. Rummaging around until he nicks the optic nerve that lets you see red.

You’re everywhere. In everything. In the back of his head, under the howling that hadn't stopped since you trailed your finger down the jagged topography of his bare chest, digging your nail into the crude x across his heart, and whispered, soft and sweet: you're all kinds of fucked up, aren't you?

A bludgeon to his self-control—

He resists. Has to. Is mean about it, too. Doesn't tell you where he's going (it's need to know), or what he's doing (would ‘ave to bash your pretty ‘ead in if I told you), but keeps you strung on the line (keep thinkin’ about that pretty cunt of yours; can't wait to come ‘ome and ‘ave you sit on my ugly mug—).

It's dangerous, this game of his. Thrilling for all the wrong reasons.

But he’s a good mutt. Good—

Until the text.

The one you send to him when you're out with friends. A picture. You're in a pub somewhere in Moss Side, a drink in hand. A gaggle of nobodies crowded around you. It makes sense, he supposes. There's that old idiom—you’ll trap more flies with honey—and he doesn't know anyone nearly as sweet as you.

His sweet girl.

(you fuckin’ mutt—)

Ghost stares at you for a moment, teeth aching. The little ensemble—a crop top and jeans—is a vision, he reckons. But it's spoiled when he catches more eyes on you than pointed at the camera. Practically spilling out of your top, aren't you?

He breathes heavily through his nose. Tastes guncotton in his throat.

Ghost commits every face to memory, and then calls you.

You're drunk. Too drunk to remember it tomorrow. Stuck in a pub on what's supposedly a bad part of town. Chatting away about going to your friend’s house. He gets the address, and something sour twits in his stomach. Shit council houses.

“That safe?” He asks, leaning back in his chair. He's already chubbed up in his slacks at the slur in your voice. “And dressed like that? Didn't take you for a slag—”

It makes you sputter on the line. “I'm—I’m not—”

You're so quick to placate him. So hasty to make him happy. Please don't be angry with me, Simon. I'm just having some fun—

The claws and fangs are tucked away when you're drunk. He shoves the information in the cache, eyes burning. Head aching. He's feverish. Hot under the collar.

Odd considering he's dead—

“Sounds like you will be.”

“It's not like that—”

“‘ow would you know? Might meet a nice fellow. Might take him home.”

“I don’t—I wouldn't—”

The sniffle makes him throb. Fuck. “Yeah? Well, ain't none of my business, I reckon—”

“It is.”

“Oh? How's tha’?”

“I—I like you, Simon—” he can taste your embarrassment through the phone. He didn't even need to bring you flowers and you're already boxing him into monogamy, confessing to him. So sweet. So tender. If he were a better man, he might have told you to sober up. To talk about this tomorrow.

Too bad for you, he isn't. And what’s worse is that he’s a loyal bastard, too.

But that's later, and right now—

He's halfway across the world, and you're vulnerable. In the den of hungry mutts.

It’s charr in his throat. Anger in his veins. “You like me? An’ you go out dressed like that?”

“There's nothing wrong with how I'm dressed—”

He sucks his teeth. “Dunno ‘bout tha’, pet. You look like you're achin’ to get fucked.”

You take a shuddering breath. “I just want you—”

“Yeah?” It's a growl. His cock spits prespend in his trousers. “Then be my good girl. Go home and wait for me.”

It's quiet on the line. He catches the hitch in your throat, the sharp exhale, like you can't really be sure if he's serious or not. He says nothing. Waits.

Where there would have been a fight—fists and teeth and snarling words—you quieten in the silence. Docile. Submissive. It's in you, he knows. He saw the glimpses back when you first met, when he'd bent down and fixed the bike he broke. All it needs is a little—

“Jus’ worried about my sweet girl, is all.”

And you relent.

Corrosive oil spills out of the necrosed holes in his head. It curls over his thoughts, liquid sin. He takes himself in his hand, blood pulsing in his veins, white-hot, damning, and bares his teeth at the urge to come to you, to push you down on the floor, and mount you like a snarling beast—

“Good girl,” he growls when you tell him you'll call a taxi, that you'll go home and have some wine with your friend instead.

Friend. Friends.

He'll have to do something about that.

(The thing about deprivation is that it bleeds into a vicious sense of possession when it's finally obtained. Greed. His wants have wants, have wants—

A perfect ouroboros. One you feed into almost destructively.)

Because the thing is—

Simon wants to tie you to his bed. Keep you locked up in the safe house he has in Manchester. Chained, shackled. A prisoner with him as your iron guard.

It isn't just fantasy, either.

The flies that congregate around you are an annoying, incessant buzzing in his ears. Remora clinging to the biggest fish.

But they're easy to scatter when he waves his hand.

(Waves off. Threatens with bodily harm, with physical aggression—

Same thing.)

The sting in his knuckles and the blood on his shoes are worth it in the end when your tantalum skin cracks. An aggregate of beautiful lines, pretty in their fragility, their brokenness. He wedges his fingers between the splints, widening the chasm to pet at the sticky-soft centre hiding beneath all that rough rock. Sweet girl. Hard candy enclosing taffy-softness.

His coos melt you to the consistency of mercury. Liquid silver pebbles along your lash line, spilling over in a dizzying display of raw vulnerability.

It makes every predatory instinct inside of him bristle. Locking onto the sweet lines of crystalline sadness that run down your cheeks. It has his heart racing. Eager, anticipatory. The thrill of the chase, of running you down into the ground until you're fine powder under him.

And it’s there, it's in his arms—the maw of a beast—where you seek comfort, lamenting the loss of your friends, your coworkers. No one wants to hang out with you anymore. They don't return your calls or answer your texts.

What did I do? You sniffle, throat bared. Belly turned up.

Flooded with tears. The lachrymal face that peers up at him makes his teeth ache. He rolls his head back, feels himself thicken in his pants.

Simon loves it when you cry.

“Fuck ‘em,” he rasps, words sticking to his dry throat. “If they can't see what a catch you are, then they don't even deserve to breathe the same air as you.”

It makes you cry harder, makes you mumble into his chest about how lucky you are to have someone like him. Someone who cares.

His breath hitches. Warm floods his veins, fever-hot.

“Thank you, Simon—”

And then you, smooth silver and wickedly sweet, cradle him in your palms as if you could hold all the broken pieces of him together.

He thinks it's cute.

Doesn't really have the heart to tell you it's a lost cause.

“Anytime, pet.”

And you're perfect, too.

You take this mangy mutt into your house, and let it eat your food, sleep in your bed. You let him fuck you stupid, and listen so prettily when he convinces you to let him spoil you. Let him pay your rent, your bills. Let Simon dote on you the only way he knows how—mercilessly possessive, and a touch cruel, mean—but you roll over, showing your belly. Submissive and sweet.

It's even better when you try to lash out at him with a collar in the shape of his teeth branding your neck, spitting and hissing like a feral cat who doesn't know yet that's claws have been clipped. Only to then curl up in his lap, purring as he strokes your fur, and carves out a place for himself in your life.

He wants to sink his teeth into you, and you think he's a big dog. Undomesticated. One who comes and goes as he pleases. A stray. A mutt.

It's said fondly. Full of love—

His mouth is full of cavities. His teeth ache. His gums bleed.

(do you know he's rabid? that the faded name on his dog tags once read cujo—)

Everything about you makes that sludge flood behind his eyes, pounding rotten fists against his temple. take, take, take; mine, mine—

The howling doesn't stop. It tells him to press you into the mattress and fuck you stupid. Tie you to the bedposts and never let you go—

He throws fists in the dark, trying to hit the madness in his head. Ends up with bloody knuckles and laughter in his ears.

(a voice of reason says, your bird is too big for a cage—)

He clings to it.

You're warm beside him. Burning hot. He syphons it from your veins when you're asleep, pulling you close just to feel something on his skin other than dirt. Other than blood.

It's easy to pretend he's fine with these little nips. Leaving teeth marks in your neck. Bloody rings snaking up your thighs.

He wraps one hand around both of your wrists, holds them high above your head, and tells himself it's enough. Shackled by him, under him, as he takes you apart, pulling at your sense of independence like the gnarled fingers of winter bringing defoliation to summer's bloom, but even with this, all of it, he still aches. Still wants. Needs—

Stupid fuckin’ mutt.

Then you bring his hands up to your throat, letting him wrap his bearish paws around your delicate neck, and he knows these little bites will never satiate the hunger in his guts.

He wakes up the next morning feeling warm. Full. Edges softened, if only just, by the sticky sweetness of your breath ghosting over his chest.

Simon curls his arm around you, holding tight. He won't let go. Won't—

Hide it. Put it away.

Ghost does neither of those things. He buries it, instead.

But in doing so, you find cracks in the foundation. Ones that are just big enough for your willfulness to slip through. To hand him back the cash he gave with a scoff, and a, i work, too, you know? i don't need your money, Simon. that's not why i’m with you—

(All he hears is, I don't need you.)

And then you send him a text. I'm going out with friends from work tonight. We're going drinking. I'll talk to you tomorrow!

In the zombified remains of his head, a new howling starts. The hisses tell him you're pulling away, running from him—

It's a big world out there. It'll eat you whole—

Like Tommy.

The thing about want is that sometimes it grows teeth, hands. Claws. Without a body of its own, it tends to mould itself after its maker because that's all it knows how to do: devour, consume. Yearn.

He shouldn't be too surprised to find that this need of his has dug itself out of the grave he buried it in.

(he did, too—)

The flimsy sarcophagus cracks open when Price announces that his missus is pregnant.

The howling in the back of his head stops abruptly. The pulsing ache in his temple abates. It's heavy, this weight. This absolute, utter emptiness—

No. It's not hollow. The chasm isn't drained, it's—

(In the silence, something growls. Feral. Possessed.)

—full. Perfect equilibrium. All of the patchwork parts of himself, the ones that don't quite fit, suddenly find synergy.

Communion.

Ghost cocks his head in consideration.

(your bird is too big for a cage—

—but maybe a collar would do.)

—after all, could you ever leave him with his name etched into your womb—

In leaving the key under the mat for him to come and go as he pleases, you've left yourself vulnerable. But—

Not anymore.

He has a safehouse he'll take you to. You'll let him, too, because it'll be the best choice for you. The three of you.

He's never entertained any ideas of family, not when the closest approximation he has is drenched in gun oil and smells of smoke from artillery fire, but the howling in his head quietens at the idea of it. He can't shackle you to the bed—stupid fucking mutt—but he can tie you down all the same. Make you his. Wholly. Always.

And the thing is—despite a pickaxe making figure-eights out of his grey matter; lead poisoning and rust giving him these sour, awful thoughts about locking you up in his house, leaving you a needy mess, dependent only on him—Simon supposes he knows right from wrong.

Intentionally knocking you up is amoral. Probably illegal. Somehow, even more dastardly when the reason for it is simply selfishness. Want. Greed. Hunger.

But in carving himself a place in your life, he failed to realise that the walls behind him closed in. No way out. And so, his only option is to go forward. To keep moving.

He'll be crucified for this, but that's fine.

He doesn't intend for you to find out, anyway. It'll be an accident. He came home early, and found you drunk. Drank with you. Your drunken idiocy merged, creating a terrible, noxious cocktail of awful, bad choices. Permanent ones. Irreversible.

(You're so sweet, so docile when you're drunk—)

It'll be easy to convince you. To play the part of a stoic man suddenly in turmoil. You'll offer to get rid of it, a suggestion that he'll flinch at—a cornered dog, a hand raising in the air. You'll whimper. Shake in his arms as you tentatively smooth over the wrinkles in his brow, murmuring out your options in a stilted breath.

You'll be a Riley before the end of your term. It's only proper, he'll mutter, stiff and uncomfortable, and you'll melt. Liquid tantalum in his palm. The fruits of his labour laid bare, seeping from the corners of his mouth. Tucked tight between his teeth. Mercury he can swallow down, keep in the bracket of his rotten ribs. Safekeeping from this world that just takes. Devours.

But not if he eats you first.

The mere notion alone serves as an anchor, locking him to the seafloor. The tumult in his head calmed at the promise of owning. Biting to claim. To have. Greedy for it. For you, and the strange sense of quiet your proximity brings him. The warmth, too.

He's a rabid dog. This he knows—has known—for quite some time. Indisputable. It pools in his mouth. Liquid sin. Makes him ache for just a sip. Unquenchable, though, because he's wary of water. Hydrophobia, but only for how it washes his efforts away. Cleanses.

The urge inside of him to bite, to infect, quietens when he gets closer to you.

(a rabid mutt licking at the window you're on the opposite side of, dreaming of just a taste—)

A byproduct of that maddening virus in his veins, the one he must have picked up six feet in the ground. Bite, bitebite—

—and give you a collar in the shape of his teeth.

He finds you in bed. A bottle of wine on the end table beside you, courtesy of your friend. The one lingering remora he couldn't snap at—one who sends you messages about how you are being manipulated. Taken advantage of. Fuck that loser, the latest one says when he picks up your phone, scrolling through the dwindling conversations housed within. Just him now, and them.

It preaches about empowerment. About how you shouldn't let a man pay your bills (textbook manipulation. he's putting you in a position of dependency. making you feel obligated to stay. it's all on Google, babes. like, fucking get a clue!!!!), or how it's moving so quickly (maybe you should come stay with me in Durham for a bit, hun. get away for a weekend. i worry about ya, is all). He hums, thumbing through the old chats.

You told her to fuck off about the manipulation, but it came after a lot of, oh, yeah. well, he's just. you know. he's different, and you haven't declined the invitation. i’ll think about it, is what you write.

It simmers under his skin. That independence he plans on stomping out under his heel. With his kin.

(sick, sick sick, wrong—)

It's desperation, this. Clawing at the walls—the dirt—until his nails are torn off his fingers. Until his skin splits, peels. Broken under rock and rubble. That animalistic need for air. To breathe. Basic training tells him not to save the person drowning unless he's sure they won't kill him in their struggle to live. But what's he supposed to do when that person is his rotting body, sinking down to unfathomable depths? When all he has is you to cling to—

Damnation built by his own hands.

You'll die together, he reckons, and tosses your phone on the hamper in the corner of the room.

Ghost can't remember the last time someone made him feel anything at all other than impartiality. Indifference. Casual apathy.

Price is the exception to this on the grounds of being consanguineous to him.

And you—

An outlier.

One he intends on sinking as deep as he can with. Anchored, maybe, by this little plan that beats and pulses in the back of his head. That clogs his throat with a want so thick, he can already taste the brine from the ocean. Water in his nose. Down his esophagus—

Better than dirt, he supposes. And it spurns him forward.

You're malleable like this. Tensile. He bends you easily with just a touch until you're flat on your back, a pillow shoved beneath your tailbone, and stripped. The loose shirt you wear to sleep is hiked up under your neck. Panties are pulled off until your sweet, bare cunt is revealed to him. All pretty and soft, and his. Untouched, he notes, and gives an appreciative stroke over your clit with his thumb.

It was something you were whining about the other day, panting in his ear as if he wasn't a continent away. Pleading with him on the phone to please, please let you come.

Simon likes the way you cling to him when it's been a while since something has wrecked you as thoroughly as his cock. When your spoiled pussy was neglected for a few days, weeks, and starved for attention. You were so sweet to him then, cooing in his ear how good you've been, how much you want him and only him, need him. Begging so prettily for it.

He's almost sad to spoil himself in your cunt when you can't weep for it. Can't bully him closer. Try to claw his eyes out. That delicious push-pull where you hiss at him for pulling away, but whine when he gets too close.

Sad, but—

Not enough to stop himself.

You're not wet enough for him to slide inside unprepared—his cock too big, something that makes his bones tremble—and he rectifies it by leaning down, letting saliva pool between his teeth and lips. He holds it there for a moment as he spreads your folds apart with his thumb and forefinger.

And then he spits on your bare cunt.

It hits your clit, the thick glob siding down your slit. He reaches between your thighs, pawing at you. Slides his fingers through the slick mess he made, teases around your tight rim.

Simon usually likes to take his time with you. Lapping at your pussy for hours until you're a weeping, snot-nosed mess whining in the sheets. Spoiled rotten. Begging him to fuck you already, Simon, you can't take it anymore—

He's mean. Cruel. Edges you for hours until your legs shake, trembling around his ears. He never lets you reach that peak—doesn’t let you come until he's buried inside of you.

Coming on his tongue, his fingers, is rarely a privilege you ever earn. Too much of a spitfire, a spiteful little kitten, to give in and do what he demands. So he keeps you on the precipice until he's ready to fuck you, ignoring your bribes, your bargains. Simon doesn't give in even when you beg, when you relent and tell him you'll finally be good.

You never are.

Spoiled, he always huffs. Down to the fuckin’ bone.

Like now. Pulling away from him. Him, the only person in your life who stuck around. A little bullying (bones breaking, splintering under his fists; the wet, hot smear of blood on his hands, skulls smacking against the pavement—an’ if you tell anyone, he cracks his battered fists and it sounds like a snarl, a gunshot, your parents will be cryin’ over an empty grave—) shooed the gnats away. He took a more clandestine approach to others. Birds that kept circling you tight. Protective, shrill. They made his head ache, but—

(don't want to start nothin’, but i don't want to be alone wit’ ‘er. tried to kiss me, is all. ain't like that, pet—)

It was a test. And they all failed. All but him.

Yet—

come to Durham.

i’ll think about it.

Ungrateful. It's his fault, though. Simon doted on you too much, cosseted by his affection, when he should have clipped your wings from the beginning.

Ah, well—

Lesson learned.

You're wet enough now. He pushes in two fingers, scissoring them apart. You'd be yowling at him, kicking up a fuss if you'd been awake. But you're not. It thrums through him. Thick, heady. He likes you like this—probably more than he should. The heat simmering in his veins bubbles. Pops. Sap on charring wood. It clogs his throat with his smoke until it burns, a dry forest fire.

He needs you. Needs to be in you. He's tired of waiting. Impatience burrows into him like a maelstrom.

Simon adjusts his hold on your leg, fingers curling behind your kneecap. Steadying himself. His fingers slip out of your cunt with a sloppy squelch that ghosts across his spine. Anticipatory. A touch anxious. He wants you. Wants you bad—

He takes himself in his hand, and slides the weeping tip over your slit. Taps it once, thrice on your clit. And then guides it to your centre. Your warmth bleeds into him. Eager, he shuffles forward. Feeds you his cock. Eyes drilling into the place where his head slips in, swallowed by your sloppy, wet hole. The glands make you stretch around him. Rim pulled taut.

The sight alone must have been crafted by some Luciferian dream, dangled before him in the shade of nirvana.

take a bite, it urges. and then take more—

Like this, passed out with your legs hitched over his shoulders, drooling into the pillow unawares, you're just a doll.

Made for him, and—

“Fuckin’ hell—” He presses into you—cock splitting tight, warm heat—and tries not to lose himself to the sensation of being bare, raw, inside of you.

—“A perfect fit.”

It's always been condoms. You're not on birth control. Ink blots in his eyes. He goes a little feral with it. Instincts unleashed. Unfettered.

Simon bullies his fat cock into you until his hips tap the back of your thighs, buried as deep as he can go. It's molten heat cocooning him—a warm embrace. For the first time, ever, he thinks he understands the meaning of home. Sliding home, in particular.

(Welcome home. Home. Home. He'll make a house out of your body. Sleep inside the brackets of your thighs, head pillowed on your chest—)

As good as you feel around him—slick, wet, and tight—and as much as he wants to saviour the sight of you, passed out on the pillow, cunt split by his cock, he has a goal, a mission, to see through.

His hand falls, slick and tacky, to your lower belly. Palm pressing against the subtle bulge in your abdomen, the outline of his cock. You always whine and hiss that he's too big for you. That you can't take him to the root.

Hurts, you complain, hand against your naval. Fingers knotting over the place that aches.

He presses his fingers there instead, feeling himself under your skin. Changing your anatomy to make room for him to fit—

It lights him in fire. Spurns him on. He bucks into you, pace sloppy, clumsy. Selfish. He's unrelenting as he splits you apart, drilling the full length of himself into your supine body, supple flesh relaxed under him, practically melting into the sheets.

The thread keeping his resolve, his self-control, sprung up tight begins to quiver. Each piston into you has delicate fingers drumming across the strings of a harpsichord. It reverberates through him, echoing in the stifling, suffocating, silence of the bedroom, overtaking it. Clouding it with the musk of his desire, his devotion to you, to this dream blooming in the prison of his mind.

Everything narrows into a needlepoint.

There's just your burning flesh beneath him, softer than it's ever been; pillowy. Welcoming. And the sounds of him fucking into you—lewd squelches, slick and wet; the sound of his cock finding home in the basin of your spread thighs; his heavy breaths, his groans and growls that seem to rattle the bed. The noise breaks, an incomplete requiem of sin in his head, and he loses himself in the lulling notes, dragged under in the bestial beat of taking what his—

A sudden noise shatters through the room. Beneath him, you stir, gasping wetly. The sound mangled in your throat.

There's confusion in your sleepy, hazy gaze when you peer up at him, lashes clumping together. You moan, whimpering, as you struggle to latch on to the threads of cognisance that he's content to fuck out of you. Your hand lifts, falls to his wrist still pressed against your lower belly. The grip is lax, loose. You’re not pushing him away, but clinging to him. Centring yourself.

It makes his blood thicken. Has him burning red-hot.

“Wha’s a’matter, pet?” He taunts, grinding his cock into you hard enough to make your dazed eyes water. Your hand tightens around him, holding steady. “Don't like it? Not fuckin’ you hard enough?”

“Simon—”

His name tapers off into a keen when he angles hips, and starts pistoning into you with a mean, merciless fury. The desperate noises that spill, unhindered, from your slack mouth is the perfect accompaniment to the lewd sound of him fucking your sopping cunt; the piece he was missing when this started. His requiem, complete.

It's a serrated blade to his self-control, already frayed and threadbare as it is. The pressure makes it snap.

“C'mon, sweet thing. Thought you wanted this?”

There's a place in hell just for him. It's sealed when you blink your tired, sleepy eyes up at him, mind a slurry of lingering somnolence and the heady alcohol on your breath, and offer a shuddering whimper. Always so soft for him, so agreeable when you’re drunk.

“So’ry, Simon—”

You can barely string words together. Poor, pitiful you—vulnerable under him. Breakable. Malleable. Anyone else could have tricked you into this same position when he was away. Got you beneath them like this, compliant and unawares, and took what belongs to him.

(The only thing in this destitute existence he claims for himself—)

Not anymore. Not ever again.

It's almost callous when he grinds into you. Hateful. Brutish. Furious. And dazed as you are, you barely even flinch at the snarls that spill, unfettered, from the back of his throat. The low groans of him making promises with devils unknown; constructing shackles from brass, iron.

Entrenching his future in motion, cupped protectively between the parentheses your thighs make around his hips. It's almost a vicious sort of poetry, one laid bare in the odious ruins of that broken thing he calls a heart. Etched into his rotten pericardium. Necrosed devotion. He'll see it through—however noxious, and putrid, you might find the miasmal stench of it spun tight in his web.

It's for your own good.

And as if you agree, you answer him in perfect euphony, moaning sweetly as you tilt your hips up for more.

Ghost groans low in his throat, bestial and spinning rapidly out of his control. He feels everything spinning, slipping; the trudge to the finish line narrows into a pinprink. He needs something to cling to, to hold on to with broken hands—

The only purchase he finds is in your demise.

His hand lifts, shaking yours loose. He reaches up, fingers dig into your chin, forcing your pouty mouth open. You blink at him, sluggish, but he catches the thin gossamer of awareness spooling thin cobwebs over darkened crevasses, covering the canyons in your eyes with cognisance. It makes him leer.

“Stick your tongue out, pretty girl,” he rasps, words sticking together, muffled under the mask. Crushed aggregate stone under the weight of his own desire. “Tha’s it. Open up nice and wide—”

He lets spit gather again, pooling on his tongue. It's degrading, you always say. Gross. But you swallow it down like a good girl, anyway. Always. You come at him with fangs and claws, but somehow, you always merge in a perfectly dizzying polyphony.

Ghost spits on your tongue. Lets it land right in the middle of fleshy pink. A sick, twisted pleasure thrums in his veins at the sight.

There's checking the boxes of an established kink, and this. Horrifically proprietary. Ownership that ignites a fire in his marrow, setting him alight from the inside out. Turns bone into blackened char, cinder. He can almost taste it on his tongue.

It's made worse, turned frenzied, when you—sweet, perfect, you—bracket it protectively in the curve of your tongue. Completely dazed, head filled with a heady slurry of somnolence and alcohol, but still aware enough to know, even if only through muscle memory, what you're meant to do when he spits in your mouth.

If anything, you're more obedient like this. Little doll. Coddling it lovingly, this little piece of him that he gives you.

And it might be the madness speaking—these fraying thoughts take on a vitriolic edge, corrosive aqua regia pooling in his throat—but Christ. He's been stabbed in the guts, repeatedly, and it somehow packed less of a punch than this.

He wants, wants—

Family never crossed his mind, was never even on the table or something to be considered, but with you it brims. Blooms in rot. Roots in tenebrous.

He has this insatiable urge to devour you whole so you'll always be with him. The waves of his desire are monstrous. The waters below are rapacious. A gaping maw eager to eat you up—

Pity it’s not an option.

But he’ll make do. Buy a ring tomorrow. Something pretty that matches your eyes. The curve of your smile. Sanctioned ownership. A collar in gemstones and gold, glimmering and shining bright enough that should any light fade from your gaze, it’ll illuminate in the gloom; twilight made in sorrow. The prettiest blues—

Said eyes water. Ghost’s hold on your face relaxes when you give a muffled keen, cheeks bubbling up against the pressure. Tongue still stuck out even as he takes his pleasure from your supine flesh. Suspended in motion, stasis. Such a good girl for him—

He swallows. Tastes poison, rot, on his tongue. “Swallow.”

You're a little sluggish, a little slow, but you follow his command all the same. He knows, then, that it could only ever be you.

No one gets under his skin like this. No one makes him itch, want, crave, as much as you do—

You make a face, twisted up in some amalgamation of pleasure and confusion. It nudges the ruins of his chest and feels almost like a heartbeat when it pulses in his flesh.

“Simon, Simon—”

His name is all you can say, and he's not sure if you're begging for mercy, or muttering it out into the scant air between your heaving breaths like an obsecration, an orison, but he eats it all the same. Bites down on your pleas, your cries, your prayers, and chews them up between fangled teeth. Takes them down into the swirling pits of his belly where they're eaten alive by what grows in the decay.

(belly full of dirt:

he heaves, and heaves, but nothing comes out even though he can taste humus in his throat, feel worms using his organs like a playground—)

“Somethin’ you want, pet?” He taunts, and shifts his hips back just enough to drag a few inches of his cock out of your drenched cunt. A tease—cruel and mean. He’d get lobbed upside the head for this had you been in your right mind. A tap to his temple, shaking the cobwebs loose. He would have bent down, and sunk broken teeth into your jugular. Merging violence with love until bloody knuckles feel like a kiss. “All you ‘ave to do is ask. Use your words, pretty thing—”

You whine, low and drawn out. A lazy whimper in the back of your throat. “Pl’se—”

You can barely speak. Tongue too thick. Sleep too heavy in your veins. Alcohol, too. A lesson, perhaps, for his willful little pet come the morning when you struggle to measure just how deep into his gullet you’ve let yourself fall.

He can’t help rubbing salt into the shallow cuts, if only because he likes the way you pout.

“C’mon, sweetheart. You can do better’n that.”

And damn him—damn you—you do. Your hand curls over his wrist, pulling it close to your mouth where you place a kiss against his palm. Tender. Chaste. Midnight blooms in your eyes, casts shadows under pale moonlight. His breath stutters in his chest when you lean your head back, letting his hand fall to your bared neck.

Your heavy, lidded eyes gaze back at him, cutting through the shade of night that sews the air like satin. Etched in the file silk is threads of trust in stark white. The kind that bleeds for him; hungers. One that aches, always tender like a bruise. The throb of it echoes between mouldering ribs. Booms between his ears.

Ghost doesn’t fall into pieces. Doesn’t shatter. No. Something in the splintered remains shifts. Settles. He wraps his fingers around the thick of your throat, thumb notched tight against your pulse, and he feels complete. Whole. Remade from the ruins.

Your breath hitches. The sound is a gunshot in his ears. He squeezes down, a gentle press. Just enough to make the air spill out of your lungs, to let your eyes water. Lachrymose, eager. It does something to him when you cry. He feels tipped upside down, torn inside out. Left all askew, asunder. He wants to drown in the pebbling river growing against your lashline. Wants to drink it down until it quenches his neverending thirst. Wants, wants—

He feels his name spill from your lips. Brassy and broken, trembling against his palm. A plea—

More.

And he gives it to you.

Simon hitches your ankle on his shoulder. Adjusts the grip he has on your throat. He settles over your body, blanketing you under his bulk. Stygian beast devouring the maiden whole. The thought amuses him even as it knocks the air from his lungs.

He anchors himself into the mattress with his knees, steadying himself, curls his other hand around the iron ring of the headboard. All the while, you look up at him—glossy eyes burning coals in the dark, in the gloom. Wanting, hungry. Mouth held open as if you’re waiting for his scraps—

And then he bucks into you, the leverage giving his thrust a savage edge.

The whines are snuffed out under his palm. Your eyes widen, tears now spilling down your temple, soaking the pillow below your head.

He groans, head rolling back. “Fuckin’ hell—ain’t you a pretty sight?”

Tucked under him, throat swallowed by his palm. Split on his cock, slick and wet. The tears streaming down your face makes him feel wicked, foul; but the spit running down your slackened jaw quells any doubt. The hand on his wrist holds him tight, tighter still, to your flesh.

You want this. His spoiled rotten bird.

So, he gives it to you.

Simon’s almost ruthless when he snaps his hips into yours, cooing viciously into your ear about how you feel, how you look, how you sound—so pretty wrapped around him, under him; his little doll—

“S’where you belong, pet—” guttural words spill, flintlike and savage, from his mangled throat. Reinforced with the hateful way he blugeons his cock into you. Times it perfectly with the firm squeezes against your jugular, never letting you catch your breath. Your eyes roll back, legs trembling. Shaking. But you don’t move, don’t struggle. The hand on his wrist is a shackle, and it makes him smirk, scars pulling up in a gnarled mess of mirth; ugly and mean. “Right where you belong. Ain’t tha’ right?”

He leans down, babbles nonsense into your temple. Promises you the heads of gods, the ichor they bleed. Swears he’ll build a shrine for you in Durham.

But for as mocking as these words he murmurs into your ear are, they’re tremulous. Raw. A current roars beneath; a steady stream, a plea, all full of need: stay, stay staystay—

(please)

He buries his nose into your hairline to stem the ravening ache in his guts, breathes in the heady scent of you—of sex, and wine, and sweat. Drags it into his lungs in harsh, angry gasps to stain his skin with the smell of you. Of him.

It goes right to his head in a heavy rush until he’s dizzy, almost sick, with the swell of it flooding in. An animal, he thinks, drunk on merging pheromones that make him mindless. Unfettered.

It’s as if he’s driven on instinct alone; his frenzied pace ebbs, grows sloppy. The air around him feels thick. Syrupy. Stifling. The balmy breath in his chest is nearly as unbearable as it is addicting. Sickeningly sweet. Still—

His chest expands, taking as much of the potent miasma into his lungs as he can, filling them up, up, until he feels the edges threaten to brust. It’s only then, when ink moults across his vision, that he lifts his head just enough to shove his mouth against yours, a broken snarl ripping free from his throat as he forces the infectious air into your mouth, down to your lungs. Polluting you with the same sickness. The same rot.

Little hiccups tumble past your lips as you swallow it down, taking everything he gives you, and he catches them on his tongue. Plays with them between his teeth, basking in the salty tang of you—brine, loam; peatsalt. Ashes, guncotton. Molasses. He’s not sure if he wants to drown you in him, or crawl into the warm, wet cavern of your mouth that pulses around his tongue like a heartbeat.

Both, maybe. Everything. All of it.

Always—

But he’s chasing pleasure on fumes. Trying to run with broken legs. There’s nothing refined about this. About the way he cudgels the head of his cock into the places that make your mouth twist away from his greedy lips in a silent scream. His weight is crushing you, he’s sure, but you cling to him harder, holding him tighter. Almost afraid to let go. And fuck—the notion alone is a kick to the chest, harsh and heavy. He nearly gags on the litany of broken moans spiling out of his mouth, landing on your tongue.

Driven mad, maybe (or pussy-drunk, and high off of his own poison); but in that madness, he discovers this:

Nirvana exists between your thighs.

Home, too.

(well—

not yet.)

Pleasure fissions down his spine. The paroxysm taking him deeper into the battle-worn depths of his demise until the walls narrow, closing in. Crushing. No escape. But—

He won’t climb out of his hole he dug. Not until he makes a bed from your flesh; shelter out of your bones. He wants to ingrain himself as deep within you as he can, arsenic subsumed down to your marrow. Poisoned with the fill of him, too sick to let go.

(Bone nausea.

A death sentence.)

It metastasises inside of him, filling the barren spaces up until it leaks from his pores.

He wants it: this dream so tantalisingly close.

Simon lifts his hand from your throat, and reaches out, grasps at it with a shaking paw—

All it takes is a few crass, careless swipes of his calloused thumb across your clit, cock angled toward that spot that makes you rake your broken nails down his back, yowling in his ear for more, there, please, Simon, please—

You clench like a vice around him. A pretty bow tied up at the base of his cock. He bows over you, grunts spilling from his chest as he sinks his teeth into your nape, splitting skin btween his teeth. The warm, ozonous tang of your blood flooding his tongue is euphoric, eclipsing his mind in a haze of pleasure that crackles and burns at the base of his spine, spitting smoke up his body and into his skull.

The harsh whine you let out—all prey, all animal; wounded, stuck under his muzzle—has some part of him, basal and inborn, rearing up. Roaring in his ears, ripping talons across the jagged remains of his head.

(mine, mine, mine—)

He answers your scream with a growl, one caught in the smoke clogging his throat. It sounds inhuman when its wrenched out of his mouth—more animal than man: the devastating howl of a forest on fire—but the feel of it vibrating between his teeth is connatural. Innate. It belongs between his incisors; fits like a puzzle piece in his broken muzzle. Unleashed now. Finally free from this ill-fitting cage he housed it, this goddamn box—

Cobbled together from palm ash and brimstone, ichor and salt. Sewed up with copper sutures in the shape of a man for a perfect fit.

Every cell in his body screams that he was made for this. To be over you, in you. Maw filled with your blood. Pussy stuffed full of his cock.

He might not have clawed out of the dirt for you, but this mossy, gnarled lump in his chest beats now only for you. Apodictic. Ironclad. His teeth in your jugular, your life pulsing wetly on his tongue.

It’s his apotheosis. His end.

His hips stutter. White noise in his head. It drowns out the shrill screams, the hisses. Everything is just—static. Pleasure of a silent kind, humming, buzzing, and molten. Ghost buries himself inside of you as deep as he can, until his cock is fit snug against the plug of your womb, and lays his claim by branding it with the potency of his name.

Tidally locked, you’re dragged down the summit with him, tumbling to your demise. Too dazed, too wound tight in his arms, his embrace, to see the jagged rock at the bottom of the hungry chasm thirsting for your blood, you just cling to him. Refusing to let go.

(silly girl—

His pretty little perigee.)

His body aches in ways that cruelly remind him of his age. Joints stiff, stomach quivering. His knuckles sting when he unfurls it from the headboard, skin pink and raw from the tight hold he had around the metal.

It’s made worse when he heaves a harsh breath, and pulls away from you with a long, drawn out groan. He settles back on his haunches, eyes searing into the space between your thighs. Messy with his spend. It dribbles down your slit, your ass, pools on the sheets below.

Your chest shudders, legs splayed out how he left you. He thinks, viciously, of gazelles, and wonders if the blood he feels drying on his mouth looks anything like the muddied mane of a lion after eating its fill.

“Fuckin’ hell—”

He should clean you up, hide his crime, but he burns the image of you into his head (another tattoo over scar tissue), and drops to a heap beside you. The moment his back hits the mattress and all thoughts of moving are erased in silk, in smoke and clover.

Chest heaving, slick with sweat, he feels the thrum of his victory in his veins. The high of the chase abates, and he nearly purrs with contentment. Hangs his pride on a pedestal, and doesn’t think about the absence of any guilt. Doesn’t even entertain the thought, not when victory dries between your thighs. When you roll over with a huff, reaching out for him.

It's as if you're trying to bury yourself inside of him, crawl into the safety of his ribs.

Ghost grunts, feels his sensitive, spent cock give a feeble twitch on his sticky thigh. The idea of you, blissfully unaware, seeking comfort from the man who writ your body with his virile spend, irrevocably changing your life and entwining it so deeply and so messily with his own that to severe either of you from each other is nearly impossible, floods him with satisfaction so deep, euphorically heady, that his chest seems to shudder. Resounding with some amalgamation of a purr, a grow, so utterly primal, that he sounds more beast than man.

His roots run deep within you, now, and every misaligned piece of his patchwork body seems to sag and shiver in an almost perfect parallelism. Congruence ascertained with the cupping of you between its mismatched maw. Shackled in a baleen prison. Nestled, safe and sound, between white teeth.

Ghost pulls you close, holding tight, and hums. As you drool on his shoulder, dripping with his spend, he knows he'll keep you there forever, until you're nothing but bones.

There's a cloud of confusion hanging over you the next morning, a twinge of uncertainty gnarling across the gaps in your memory. The pieces of a puzzle that belong to a different set. He watches you scramble through them, filling in blanks. Oscillating so deliciously between wariness and discontent.

“‘morning,” he greets, as if his spend hasn’t dried on your thigh last night. Tucked up nice and tight against your fertile, unprotected womb. As if he couldn't taste brimstone in the back of his throat when you wince as you walk, achy and battle-worn from the weight of his desire crushing you all night.

“Morning,” it's a sticky rasp in your throat. He wonders if you taste him on your tongue. “When did you get in?”

“Las’ night.”

You nod, but it's absent. Flickering through the timeline of events that aren’t drenched in black, shaded over like a heavy bruise. Your expression is fractured. Raw. Pensive. Something untouchable, unchartable, and yet he reads you as plainly as the tea leaves at the bottom of his cup.

You don’t remember. Don’t know what to make of this chasm, this fissure, that looms, icy and deep, before you. There’s no anger, though. You don’t demand recompense for what he stole, what he took. The lashings he deserves are tucked quietly between your teeth. Hidden under layers of normalcy to prevent yourself from seeing him as is: a beast.

“Well, um. Some homecoming, huh?” You joke, but it's hollow. Flat. Fragile like fine glass. You're digging for more. Rooting around to connect these vague, absent dots that linger, lost in the vacancy of your memory.

He almost purrs.

He wants to chew you up. Spit you in the palm of his hand. Maybe tuck you in his breast pocket, nestled against the lump in his chest—the one those silly enough to dream might call a heart. Keep you there forever. Hidden in the barrel of his loaded gun.

“Bit rowdy.”

It’s horrifically vague, but you cling to the prevacation he proffers to you; a lifeline in the turbulent sea, letting it overwrite the absence, the itching in your skull that must be clanging on the walls, begging for you to run.

“Sorry,” it's sheepish. He knows the ferality in which you sometimes come at him when he's buried deep inside you is something that makes you twinge with embarrassment. Little kitten clawing at the old dog trying to get it to play. Rolling over immediately when it growls. Docile, sickeningly sweet.

But even naive kittens know to watch out for the frothing, foaming maw.

“Did you use a—?”

He dips his chin. “I might ‘ave.”

And you take it as gospel. As truth. Why would Simon have any reason to lie to you about this?

Relief shudders over your shoulders. You relax, inching toward the seat across from him. Gazelle making a home for itself in the lion’s den.

The spell of unease is broken, now, and you quickly fill the chasm with chatter about your day. Your plans. Asking him how he’s been.

You shove at the warning signs until they’re hidden away, and ignore the bones of your brethren scattered around you. All because you trust him.

He aches with the urge to crush it between his teeth.

And he will one day soon, he’s sure, because it’s just as easy to enact his plan as it was to get you to open the door.

It starts with him convincing you to drink with him after dinner. Jus’ a glass. Got this fancy bottle. Reckon we should ‘ave some.

But—

Can’t drink forever—no matter what his dogshit dad thought.

So, he pokes holes in the condoms you hide in the bedside table, a little wary now. A touch fretful about your contraceptives in a way that makes him preen. You have good instincts, but rarely do you listen to them. Your head must be filled with sirens, but it's futile, he supposes. He's already stuffed cotton into your ears.

It only feeds into that gaping chasm that bellows up from the depths that this world is not good for you. That it will tear you into pieces, into shreds. You need him. Need the Ghost to protect you.

Case in point:

You’re needy beneath him, panting and mewling into the sheets as he teases your clit with his thumb. So wet, it almost feels like hot oil on his skin. Syrupy thick.

In your desperation, you cling to him, throat bared. Fragile fine china. Belly up. Vulnerable.

You barely notice when he pulls off the condom, crumpling it up into a ball and shoving it in the pocket of his slacks.. Don’t even react when he shoves his bare, raw cock into you.

You don't even notice.

(or when he slurs in your ear about how badly he wants to knock you up—breed his pretty girl until she’s stuffed full of him, making life with what he offers. salvation in the form of creation. ain’ tha’ a thought? he huffs into your ear, humid mirth curling over your skin. a stain. and the way it unfetters you—tightening around him, gushing slick—he finds his answer, one reinforced in the rolling of your eyes as your common sense, independence, trickle out of your ears and down your slackened jaw—)

And when that fails, he just slips you a sleeping pill. There's always an easier way to the finish line, he finds.

(stupid fuckin’ mutt—)

Nothing bleeds from the cracks he wrought, or slinks from the shadows cast by his machinations until weeks later.

Life just goes back to what it once was—Simon coming and going, letting himself into your home with the door you leave unlocked. You go to work, and chatter aimlessly about this vision you have about a home in the countryside, near the ocean. Saving up—uselessly—for sheep and goats, and the sought-after Highland cows. Chickens and ducks first, you say, and barely notice when his gaze drops, drilling holes into your stomach. Watchful. Leering.

He can almost scent the change on you. Nose pressed to your skin; bloodhound sniffing the ground.

Ghost keeps time in the slow, susurrus drawl of your voice sifting through the cotton in his ears, waiting for those precious decibels to catch on, to tilt up at the end as your eyes skim the calendar he keeps scratching x’s across in red, almost delicate, innocent even though it's from his sanguinary hand. A countdown to something you haven’t yet caught on to.

And it’s all so sweet.

—the waiting game, the subtle changes, the desperate way you cling to normalcy—

Sweet, like the way you carve this life out for yourself, filled with stuffed animals full of idealism. So much so, that it's almost bitter. Acrid. He watches the light glow in your eyes as your plans take shape, moulding putty between your hands, and like a pit viper, he coils in on himself. Frenzied. Fearful—

But only just.

The excitation has run its course. He’s drifting, languid, into his scheme. Content. The notion of you slipping from his fingers is a thought that rarely crosses his mind these days, especially when that house on the prairie grows from an occupant of one to two—

“And, you know… when you're not out saving the world—” your eye roll and air quotes make his lips twitch, tugging at the scar tissue, the acid burns, splashed across his mouth. An ugly fucking Pollock. “—maybe you can come visit.”

“Never fancied myself a rancher,” he drawls, just to watch you squirm. Brow furrowing into a deep ravine as you struggle to make your intentions known without actually giving them sound. Skirting around the issue of wanting him there, of planning a home with him.

(Too much, maybe? Or too soon—?

if only you knew—)

He finds it charming, really.

Still—

“It's just a thought,” you mutter, downcast. He wants to choke on your misery. Your sadness. Drown himself in your anger. Float in your happiness.

Fuckin' Christ—

All this playing daddy in his head has thrown him off his rocker. Made him soft. Sentimental. It's probably why he yields to you. Offers a lazy shrug and another smarmy twitch of his lips.

“Sounds like a plan,” and the way you brighten is a dagger to his chest.

And the thing is. It does. It sounds like a dream, a perfect vision. Just—

Maybe not in the way you'd want.

He's been looking into places unmarred by human hands. Ghost towns, uncharted territories. His home here isn't perfect for it, not like the vast geography of Mexico. The uninhabited wilderness of Canada, places so remote that it's almost untethered to modern civilisation. Islands of forest, mountains, all on their own.

Vast corners and crevasses where someone can disappear and never be found.

But those won't work in tandem with his flighty lifestyle. While he plans on keeping you barefoot and pregnant (common sense in the back of his head screams that he's foul, vile, monstrous—), he will continue to work. Has to, really, to avoid suspicion.

So—

Home it is.

But he gets inspiration from the Highland cows you coo on about and purchases a plot of land in the Western Isles. Gives this whim of his—yours, really—a concrete foundation made of the abstract. The filament provided by his newly christened Sergeant—an overeager mutt that bleeds warning signs from his pores.

(don’t get close, reactive dog. will bite—

the little mutt is a great pyrenees, ain’t he?)

But bless Johnny’s bleedin’ heart, he thought as the man prattled on about this cabin he owns. A place of solitude. Could fire a gun and no one would even peek out the curtains. Beautiful, the way all of Scotland is. The highlands, he breathes in that shade of catholic madness only the dutiful soldiers of god's right-handed wrath can be, is where he keeps his home. A place chiselled from stone, surrounded by wilderness that eats tourists alive.

(he didn’t ask at the time why Johnny was so keen on finding these places scattered around Scotland, ones with little traffic and a nearly negligible amount of souls within the vicinity, but he finds its best not to get too close to mutts crossbred with wolves.)

But Simon is nothing if not devoted, and so.

You’ll get your fantasy ranch in the middle of nowhere. Your highland cows, your billy goats, your chicken, sheep, and ducks. A baby in your arms, too. One that shows its hand the next morning, dashing all your carefully laid plans. These paths of independence of yours run parallel to his whims but never converge. There’s the potential in this for these fraying threads to split, and diverge. Separate.

(But it’s all put to rest at the sound of you heaving in the adjoining washroom. His path eats yours until it’s overtaken. Consumed.

The evasive, unfettered little bird trammelled, caught. Wing-clipped, and all his.)

Any misgivings the part of his gyri not buried under the frothing mess of his polluted grey matter might have is vitiated by the unwavering certitude that, despite his own gains in this, it really is in your best interest.

And maybe it's something that should have come earlier in your relationship—however threadbare that word is in conjunction with the unhinged desire blooming in the pit of his chest; madness masquerading as love or some obsessive, desperate facsimile of it. Maybe a proper man, a better one, might have dug down and fully laid out the reality of intertwining your life with the living dead. That the idea of danger, death, and revenge are all everpresent threats scratching at the walls of this sickeningly sweet fantasy you wrap around yourself.

He’s a dangerous man. A creature of devastation—manmade, bent into, or congenital is yet to be unearthed—which, in itself, brings about a certain lifestyle. One with fewer people around, and always shrouded in secrecy. Friends, family—none of that matters when death curdles gnarled fingers around his jugular.

You’ll get used to it. Eventually. The only other choice is to let you, his now flightless bird, go. Released back into the wild vulnerable and reeking of his stench.

You’ll be devoured before daylight, ripped into pieces—only if they’re feeling generous, that is.

Simon has his own twisted remora. Ones with claws and fangs and a hunger that runs deep. Insatiable. Any scraps that fall from his mouth are devoured before they can touch the sea floor. They’ll crush you in their maw and dangle your mangled body from the gaps between their teeth.

You’re not made for the wild. Not anymore. You’re meant to be protected. You—this fragile, delicate thing. He’ll hold you close, keep you secure and safe in a mausoleum of your own making.

This little glass jar domicile.

A billet in the mountains.

He’ll fill it with the finest things—silk linens, fine china; mahogany and teak, pink ivory; a bed of soft, downy feathers, sherpa, Egyptian cotton; (sticks and stones and grass and moss). Buy you whatever you need. Chickens and ducks. Sheep and goats.

They’ll keep you company when he’s away.

(and if that fails, he can always plan playdates for you with whatever dirty secret Johnny’s been keeping tucked away in the woods.)

He draws an x in the empty, white box of the calendar, the tip of his red marker gliding silkily across the glossy surface. Something unfurls in his guts. Blossoms in his bones. There’s an almost indescribable sense of satisfaction—primal and animalistic—that grows from the upturned dirt in his head. Life composted from rot.

Ghost hums to himself when he turns, the sound nearly a purr—bestial as it is, suffocated under sulphur. It reverberates through his chest, trembling across the brackets of his ribs that expand with his deep, heavy inhale—breathing in the sight that greets him like a lover’s kiss

The kebab he ordered lays untouched on the table across from the television—some trashy reality show playing in the background while you tried to eat; a dating show, you’d said when he merely shrugged, having other things on his mind over what to watch while you ate. It all seems to be preserved in time. Frozen in on the exact moment when you’d sniffed the döner kebab he got for you—the same thing you order each time—and then promptly wrenched yourself back, gagging. The sandwich was flung back in the takeaway box before you slapped your hand over your mouth, rushing into the washroom.

If his phone wasn’t in the other room, he might have taken a picture. A little memento to remember this moment. Framed it in iron and perched it on the desk they gave him back in Hereford, the one just down the hall from Price.

(ah, speaking of—he’ll have to send that caustic bastard a fruit basket, or something, won’t he? maybe some pretty flowers for his lady.)

His reverie is shaken when the door to the washroom creaks open slowly, and you emerge through the gap with sweat on your brow, knots across your forehead, and a shaking hand resting over your churning stomach.

Shame, he thinks. He really should have brought his phone—

You lean against the wall, taking in deep, shuddering breaths to steady yourself, confusion and worry knitting over you like a thundercloud. It tastes of ozone when he inhales. An approaching storm. In the blue gloom of the living room, illuminated only by the light flooding out from the washroom behind you and the static glow of the television, you look etiolated. A wilting flower.

His budding rose.

He coos. “You alright?”

You glance sideways at the kebab on the table, mouth pinching into a grimace as if to stem the nausea still rippling through you. You stare at it for a long moment, seemingly trying to make sense of the reality sitting in front of you on scratched, old pine; confusion runs laps over the dawn cresting in your eyes. This puzzle is too unfathomable for you to piece together; the keys and slots all askew.

The air around him grows still. Silent. Anticipatory. A tiger crouched low in the tussock. A little fawn roaming too close.

There’s a heaviness in your eyes when they flicker back to the wall where he stands, drilling holes into the x. Something implacable frissons over your threadbare expression, fracturing across sallow cheeks.

The air is electric. It pulses across his bare flesh, irritating scar tissue, acid burns, and scorch marks. His skin prickles at its whisper.

“Feelin’ sick, pet?” He ponders, playing pretend. He’s viciously, deeply amused at the desperate denial splashing across your cheeks. The thin shade of askance that unfurls like the leaves of a flytrap when you look at him. “Mus’t’a been the kebab. Bad meat, I reckon?”

You offer a weak nod in response, pinching your lips tight together. The matter seemingly concluded, brushed aside. Pocketed for later.

And you say nothing else for the rest of the night—gaze unseeing, turned inward; pensive—but he purrs in contentment as if everything was alright, sprawled across the couch with his head pillowed against your churning stomach as if he could hear the whisper of another heartbeat from within.

In the saturated blue light, he catches your eyes listing toward the calendar every so often. Wary. Nervous. He thinks you might say something, might ask, but you don’t. It’s caught on a stilted breath. A harsh swallow.

All you do is bring your hand to his shorn head, and raze the stumps of your clipped claws against his scalp. It’s almost as if you’re trying to soothe the madness from within. Scratching that itch deep inside until it goes away. Gentle hands play pretend and dress up as a panacea. Affection to scrape the illness away.

He thinks you should know better than that, even as he leans into it with a soft exhale, more relaxed than he'd ever been his entire life. Content. Unassailable in his conquest.

Simon has always been more scar tissue than man, and no place is damaged more than the upturned tumulus inside his head.

But oh. How you try—

His sweet, sweet girl.

The look you give him the next evening is, in parts, brumous.

A polynya of dread, worry, guilt, fear that frissons across the deep valleys in your eyes, shaded in plumes of darkness, filled in deliciously with the weight of your beleaguered uncertainty. It yawns out before him, this heavy gloom.

So close he catch the embers in his hand.

“Simon… We should—talk. I, uh—”

You hold up a little rectangle, dismay, misery, etched in the blue tinge spreading across your face. It seems to steal the words from your throat, turn them into ash. What else are you meant to say, he supposes, when you look out at the world now from the gape in his maw?

But there’s a veil of wonderment that hides below the tidal wave; this precious, deadly, undercurrent that rents the air, splits his chest in two.

The happiness, however meagre, thin, it is right now (just a sunken boat on the seafloor), is there. Ripe for salvage, and he sees that it’s handled with care. Cupped between his palms, nurtured by his own conviction to do what’s right, an’—fuck, pet—know this ain’t what we planned, but—

but:

The howling quiets, turns to a low growl, and then a susurrus hum, when you shakily utter the words he was waiting for.

“Yes, Simon—”

You shudder when his fist closes over your wrist, pulling you into his purring chest. Shaking like a prey animal in the jowls of a beast, bested and ensnared. It has a profound, almost predatory, sense of satisfaction curling over his bones. He knows this was the right choice, and is sure, in time, you'll come to realise that, too. You’re in the early stages, he knows. Prodromal. You need to be handled with care to curb the lacrimation, the hyperesthesia.

And there’s no one better than him to guide you through the throes of it. To lead you to the unequivocal end.

He leans down, and whispers in your crown—

“Good girl—”

—and the sound of his voice is gravel encased in sticky, sweet honey. Dark, smokey molasses. The very same cadence as a key sliding inside of a lock; metal grazing metal. Turning—

“If it’s a boy, we’ll name him Tommy.”

Click.

(he gives you that ring he promised when he takes you to the mountains. you smile wide, and tell him it fits like a gyve.)

Simon stops shovelling his want under the cold dirt and starts burying it inside you instead. Makes a domicile from your flesh; a place where he can rest his aching head every night until the howling scraping down fractured bone stops— (paralytic)

#simon riley x reader #simon riley x you #ghost x reader #goddd this is foul #and was supposed to be up hours agooo but Nahanni closed at 5 today oops #cod #call of duty #simon ghost riley x reader #cod smut #simon riley smut #simon riley cod #ghost call of duty x reader #ghost cod x reader #in many ways this is a psa on the symptoms of rabies

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angelltheninth · 22 days

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Hazbin Men and their aftercare routines after they've absolutely destroyed their gf?

Then you destroy them back! It's the only way to make it even.

Pairing: Alastor, Lucifer, Husk, Sir Pentious, Vox, Valentino x Fem!Reader

Tags: nsfw, smut, rough sex, biting, overstimulation, aftercare, cuddles, kissing, massage, handcuffs, subspace

A/N: You really need to be able to trust these guys if you're willing to let them wreck you.

Alastor savors the look of you curled up on his bed, bite marks all over your body, scratches down your arms and legs. Now you match. Cruel as he can be he won't leave you like that. But he also won't fully coddle you, enough to make you feel better but he trusts you can take care of most things yourself, with his encouraging words that is. He definitely does not get hard again when he hears you say his name in that rough, scratchy, groaning voice.

Lucifer is one of the most attentive men out there when it comes to aftercare, double after a session that left you boneless. He'll get a warm bath going for you quickly, doesn't that sound like fun? You can cling onto him all you want, he will fly you there, don't you move a muscle. Not that you can move much at all. If you keep rolling your hips against him however he might not so accidentally push his cock back in. It's only half hard now but that should be enough to soothe the emptiness your pussy feels.

Husk pulls out very carefully sine his cock stimulates more than most. Made a bit of a mess too it seems. You know he has to clean it up, but since you can't take much more stimulation he's careful with his rough tongue, easily licking between your folds and into your pussyhole, getting his cum to drip into his fur. Gingerly plants kisses across your thighs, chuckling as they tremble under his lips. Does the same up your back, until he gets to the bite mark on your neck where he lets out a loud purr.

Sir Pentious panics that he overdid it with you, he can get a bit lost in it since he doesn't have sex that often. Your poor pussy and clit look so swollen, he feels sorry for them. Commands his Egg Boiz to get the softest pillows for your maximum comfort, until then he will try to soothe you by kissing you, not your pussy, your body. His snake tongue tickles, your giggles soothe his worries greatly but he still wants to make sure you're alright so he won't leave your side until then.

Vox almost feels bad about how much you're twitching when he pulls out. Almost, he would feel bad if the sight wasn't picture worthy. His new lock screen maybe, with your pussy on display and his cum spilling out. Now that that's done he can begin helping you calm down, starting out with ordering your favorite snacks and drinks to replenish your energy. He doesn't need that much himself so he puts something on, holding you while you get your wits back.

Valentino isn't that good at taking care of you after he's had his fun. He will unlock the handcuffs he put on you and kiss your wrists, his long tongue circling around the effected area, stinging more then helping. Notices you git a bit lost there for a second, too much stimulation for you, but now your eyes are clearing up. Stays with you until that happens, one arm around you, the other holding a cigar, and the other two crossed over his chest. He looks way too pleased with himself.

#hazbin hotel x reader #alastor x reader #lucifer x reader #husk x reader #sir pentious x reader #vox x reader #valentino x reader #hazbin hotel imagine #hazbin hotel headcanon #hazbin hotel x you #hazbin hotel smut #x female reader

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diejager · 4 months

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More Wolfie plz🥺? Idk what you’d right but I love the universe you built up with it and would love more of it, even if it’s just a sliver

Training Cw: smut, training, collar, ring gag, doggy style, creampie, unprotected sex, PinV, fingering, tell me if I missed any.

“What did I tell you about growling, pup?” He sounded so demeaning, his hand laid heavy on your nape, holding your face down and away from the two men in the room with you.

Ghost had pulled you to Price’s office under the guise of this being training, wanting to work through your aggression you’d thrived on while living in the wild. You were jerky and a biter, baring your teeth after a low growl, threatening to sink into someone’s hand or arm as retaliation. They were getting a lot of complaints from people who would approach you and attempt to pet your ears and tail, wanting to touch the softness of your washed fur and disregarding your personal space and boundaries.

“None of that,” his grip tightened around your neck when your throat rumbled, a growl slipping through your gagged mouth, drool rolling down your cheek.

They gave you a pretty, black ring gag, placed behind your teeth to keep your mouth open from biting them and showing off your sweet and fiery mouth. The black leather looped behind your head, a thin strap connecting it to your collar, a smooth, black leather that sat comfortably around your neck without irritating it, but thin enough for you to feel everything. They had you wear it as a sign of possession, the silver insignia of their Task Force hanging from the front, a skull and winged sword proudly gleaming under the light wherever you go.

You mellowed down, growls quieting to loud pants, exhausted from your skirmish with Ghost, doing your best ignore your Captain’s rough handling, his calloused fingers kneading the flesh of your hips and stomach, his hands smoothing over the arch of your back to your tail. Your fur was matted and wet, dirtied with slick that - prior to being forced into this position - pooled down your rim and wetting your soft fur. You’d long given up in fighting Price, he was much stronger than you and smelled of power and strength —like alpha. He was the leader of your little pack, a fiercely protective leader who had every intent of putting his group first, but it was his scent that made you stop. He smelled of strong musk, a heady scent of cigar and cedar, less smoky and sweet than your Lieutenant’s sandalwood that kept flooding your sensitive nose.

“Good pup, you’re doing so well,” Price cooed, running his fingers through your hair, scratching the reactive nerve behind your ears. It made you whine, a high sound that had both of them shush you, “That’s it, you’re all right, pup.”

Your panting grew louder, mewls slipping out as a final sign of submission, letting them bend your body to their pleasure. You arched your back, bucking against the bearded man that was ploughing into you, driving his hard cock into your wet cunt, slick squelching out of you with every snap of his hips, his balls slapping your twitching clit. You couldn’t deny how good it felt to give up all autonomy after having taken care of yourself on your own for years, letting another care for you and manhandle you in the best way. His veined girth laid heavy in your cunt, your gummy walls wrapped round him in a tight hold, just a hair away from coming.

Canting his hips and leaning forward, your world exploded in bright lights when Price’s head tapped your cervix, punching the air out of your body with every thrust. He was guiding you through your orgasm just as he had his, his cock throbbing and veins pulsing before the tip spurted ropes of cum, painting your walls white with his tangy lad, hot and thick. Price groaned lowly, palms holding your hips flushed to his, giving a few jerky thrusts before he hilted inside of you, unmoving but grounding you with the smooth touch of his thumb and Ghost’s grip on your scruff.

When he pulled out, his cum oozed out of you, dripping down your mound and landing on the old couch in his office. He admired the gift with a slight twitch of his cock, it leaked out of you like an unending fall. Wasteful, truly. His fingers slid down your thighs, gathering his cum and pushed it back in, fingering his load with a few wet sounds.

“Stay good for Ghost, pup. Can you do that?”

Taglist: @sae1kie @yeoldedumbslut @bvxygriimes @distracteddragoness @konigsblog @havoc973 @im-making-an-effort @daisychainsinknots @0alk0msan @danielle143 @dont-mind-me-just-existing-sadly @tuttifuckinfruttifriday @notspiders @brokenpieces-72 @petwifed @aldis-nuts @randominstake

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ladywuvly · 2 months

Text

barry sloane +au. +characters rec list!

masterlist. socials. recs.

head canons & imagines |

dbf!price boys your age by @captainfern

dbf!price shotgunning his cigar by @inkbybambi

dbf!price sugardaddy; part.2 by @faith369

bf!price headcanons by @empresskylo

landlord!price moving out by @gatorlovebot

husband!price darling wife by @ghosts-cyphera

honesty by @gatorlovebot - John doesn't like liars.

fixing your bad self-image by @sweetiecutie - You’ve been feeling a bit self-conscious lately, so John decides to fuck some sense into your head.

tummy love by @stoutpancakes

truth or dare? by @soapyghost

don't disobey by @jawabear - A risky move on the field leaves the captain less than happy with you.

steady girl by @jawabear - John loves when you help him trim his facial hair. And he loves what comes after as well.

genesis by @moondirti - It’s the first time you truly see him – this much of him, anyway, and he’s startlingly younger than you would’ve thought. The progression of a spite-fuelled relationship.

eye contact by @kungfubarbie101

two is hardly a crowd by @grippingbeskar

how to disappear by @fawnpires - After a failed attempt at a date, you unexpectedly find yourself in the hands of comfort of your dorm-mate, also known as your captain.

bartender by @sky-is-the-limit

rings by @glossysoap

what’ve you done this time by @captainfern inspo; @bleuu-moon

just the tip, love by @floralpascal

home is the feeling of you by @maryangelex - You’re Price’s fiancé back home and it’s been months since you’ve seen him. He’s been on deployment and days have been getting lonelier the more days pass. Until you get home one night from work to a more than pleasant surprise.

taking his time by @empresskylo

neighborly advice by @sky-is-the-limit - Your neighbor price takes matters into his own hands to finish what your incompetent ex could never. all in the name of good neighborly solidarity, of course.

cigar smoke and good sex by @lxvvie

helping hands by @deathsimage

break the rules by @bonitanightmxres - Months after breaking up, you and price agree to a “no strings attached” relationship to fill the void in your lives—but it proves to be harder than anticipated when you both start to catch feelings again.

how you deserve by @manmuncher777 Inspo; @sky-is-the-limit

fics |

never let me go 5/5 by @maryangelex - You worked at a coffeehouse, your life is filled with mundanity and you wouldn't change it for anything else. That is, until one crisp autumn morning, you meet the handsome Captain John Price and there’s an immediate, undoubted connection between the two of you.

neighborly 5/5 by @391780 inspo; @hereforthepedrofanfic - You and your neighbor, john price, slowly getting to know each other over the holidays.

the rear window 5/5 by @391780 - spinoff! neighborly!pricepov stalker!price.

soft 9/9 by @391780 - Soap says dumb shit in a bar, Captain Price falls in love with a fat girl.

Songs That Sound Like Sea-Foam 2/2 by @halcyone-of-the-sea - fisherman!price x mermaid!reader.

take me home, country road 5/5 by @ceilidho - 1800s!price. 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

callsign: zero 12/12 by @cass-the-mess - 2 years ago you saved John Price from an untimely death, only to disapear without a trace before he could thank you properly for getting him back home safe. You show up again 2 years later to help the task force defeat a new enemy. Tensions rise as you show your true colors and navigate through unresolved issues that puts you and your new team at risk. Are you willing to finally open up or do you keep pushing everyone away to keep yourself "safe".

marigold 7/7 by @captainfern - dadsbestfriend!price (pretty much anything and all things from this masterlist.)

disclamer! none of these are my works all credit to the authors. I just loved them so much figured I'd give them a shoutout!

#ladywuvly. recs.#captain john price #captain price #captain price x reader #captain price x female reader #captain price x y/n #captain price x you #captain john price x reader #captain john price x you #captain john price x female reader #captain price smut #captain price mw2 #captain john price smut #navi.#nsfwcontent #18+ mdni

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cold-violet · 11 months

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I'm hiding behind a mask

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kafkasmuses · 4 months

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lace garters

words : 3,903

tags : 18+!!! mdni! escorts , sex work , reader ! sex worker , vaginal sex , finger fucking , finger sucking , porn with feelings , brothels , oral sex , save a horse ride a whattt

p.s : this is also posted on my ao3!! ( divider by siren4u & gif by drewstarkrs )

billy was a virgin, surprisingly, he didn’t have time for a girlfriend, and the quick fucks from the escorts never enticed him much. many offered, when he would stop quick at towns for a simple beer or to take care of things— he would typically get stopped by the escorts dressed in their gorgeous silks, tight corsets, and sleeves that fall off their shoulders so easily it has your fingers itching with desire to fix it. it would make even the most sane man turn mad, and somehow billy never allowed himself to fall for it.

not until now, an escort stops him before he walks in a bar, “how old are you, dear?”

“19, ‘bout to turn 20,” his voice is smooth and sweet, southern drawl sweeping out with ease.

the girl hums out, tipping out of the way to allow his eyes to another girl standing far behind her, you, “you’re too young for me, dear, you should talk to her. she can show you a good time.”

typically billy would say no, offer a few coins for their efforts and simply walk into the bar like nobody had offered. but something was different when his eyes fell on you, you weren’t like the other escorts, quick to talk to the men and get some money for the events that take within the confines of the motel walls. you were rather looking off in the distance, your position more reserved rather than comfortable. it had him wanting to know more.

to be fair, billy was bored these days, all he did was travel and go from town to town, never leaving a mark on those behind. other than his wanted posters, which by the way, had an awful drawing on it. how the hell was he ever supposed to get a girlfriend with drawings like that made about him? each step is slow, calculated, as he moves over to you. he notices that mid way, your attention seems forced away from him.

are you afraid of him? he tips his head in your peripheral, easily looming over you, “darling.”

your eyes snap to him almost immediately, widening as if you didn’t think it would truly be him, yet you mumble out a, “honey.”

“lady over there told me to talk to you,” his head tips up, blue eyes piercing into you, even through the deepest of the night.

“i don’t want trouble,” you finally turn to him, the smell of musk and gunsmoke filling your nose as he bites through the toothpick in his mouth, “i hear you’re wanted.”

“wanted, but not trouble,” he corrects, smirk tugging at his right lip, “you don’t gotta tell anyone.”

“wasn’t plannin’ on it,” your voice is so sweet, it nearly has him doubling over. you’re teasing him, clearly, but billy has never backed down to a challenge once in his life, he can bet on that.

his eyebrow twitches upright slightly, “how much for thirty minutes, beautiful?”

“you can satisfy me in thirty minutes?” you tease, smile widening at your own joke.

his head cocks to the side, and he can’t help the way he licks his lips, cockiness coursing through his veins, “i probably could in ten.”

you can’t help the way your flesh feels like rubber over molten, cheeks flaring to a new maroon that you hadn’t expected. your eyes dare to match his, the lust unsheathed in the teal of his eyes, “thirty will be just a few coins.”

his hand moves to your jaw, tipping your head up further to look at him with ease, now you have no choice of looking away, “you don’t think i can in ten?”

“i doubt it,” your skin is hot underneath his touch, despite your bold demeanor.

“we’ll see.”

⋆𐙚₊˚⊹♡

the motel carried the same smell as it always did, the mix of mustiness, smoke from cigars, and whiskey. billy’s gut churned as you led him to the room that you always rented, surely, he was cocky at first— then he began to worry if he would even be good enough. he was a virgin, after all, and he’s sure you’d been with mostly experienced men. he doesn’t say anything once the door opens, seemingly every worry dissipates as you look back at him with a different look, your lashes flutter over your eyes with ease, the look is more seductive, siren like.

if you were a siren, consider him the sailors in those tales, lost in the tides and addicted to the song that oozed out your vocals.

he allows you to guide him to the bed, sitting him down on the thin, firm mattress with your hands lingering on his shoulders, “what would you like me to do?”

“i’d like for you,” he trails off, eyes tracing down your body, “to get on your knees.”

your hands leave his shoulders as you ever so slowly kneel down, every movement is well thought out, calculated, your body flowing in the most seductive ways. despite your lowered body, your eyes still remained up at him, the sudden doe look in your eyes making his legs spread ever so slightly. his hand is gentle when it touches your cheek again, pinky lining underneath your jawline as his thumb threatens against your lips.

it’s dangerous, the way you look at him, like your gun is being drawn to him with your finger teasing the trigger.

“and?” you add, his thumb teasing your now open lips. he tried not to flinch when your mouth encased his thumb, the warmth wetness of your mouth enveloping the skin. he finds himself unable to speak, unable to wonder whatever he wants— he wants to be stuck in this moment forever, it was greater than any other treasure he had come across. you were so good at your job, it made him want to know the lengths of your skills.

“suck me off,” he finally speaks, gentle to remove his thumb from your mouth.

it was a statement that you were used to, the firm tone, the expectation to get to it immediately— yet you are somehow surprised when it comes from him, it’s less firm, not like a demand but rather an offer, and there wasn’t a feeling of being rushed. for a man who seemingly had no time for women, he surely had a way to talk to them, to be gentler with them, unlike the other men. it was always cowboys who had the better ways of treating women, respectful with every word, or touch. his eyes are heavy on you, the curtains of your eyelashes blinking up to him, your lips tinted a sweet rouge due to a patted on lipstick, and he finds himself pushing his thumb across your lips, smudging the burgundy ever so slightly.

your hands smooth over the fabric of his pants, fingertips teasing the leather of his belt which accompanied his gun holster as you palmed him through his slacks. the touch of the leather was rich, sturdy and every loop was clean cut, rather than loose and falling apart like many belts you had undone before. you hear him groan as your hand gently pushes against his clothed cock, his back stiffening ever so slightly as a chill runs up it.

he tilts his head to the side ever so slightly as you undo his belt, your fingertips threateningly close to his gun holster as you pull the leather from the metal to loosen it. a chuckle vibrates from his chest, voice lower than usual, “careful, princess.”

he lifts his hips as you tug down his pants, boxers following soon after to slip down to his ankles with ease. a hiss escapes him as soon as his hard dick is released to the cold air, with the opposing blow of your warm air on his tip. he was already so hard, as if he had been aching for a day like this. his hand moves to wrap around his base, hips scooting closer ever so slightly.

“open,” his voice is husky, yet velvety, like the thorn of a rose to the petals.

you’re quick to allow your jaw to fall slack, tongue smoothing out past the burgundy that coats your lips, as if you expected his next command. he taps his tip against your tongue, biting back the groan that thunders inside his every limb at the feeling of the warm, wet muscle. he allows you to take the lead, your tongue following the underside of his dick, memorizing each vein. when you reach his tip, you press a few sloppy kisses to it that has his breathing roughen, allowing you to open your mouth once more and take his length inside.

he sucks in a deep breath, a hoarse groan escaping past his lips when he exhales, allowing his teeth clench on the thin wooden toothpick that still remained in his mouth. his head tips back when you hollow your cheeks only mere seconds into sucking him off, his hat slipping off his head and falling onto the plush of the bedsheets.

his breath becomes ragged with the more you bob your head, allowing the tip to reach the back of your mouth, to the throat. his free hand moves to pass through your hairline, gripping at the beginning of your hair, even through your updo, loosening the tightening of the strands. the muscle in his arms flex underneath his short-sleeved button up, veins popping out every time you reach the base.

“good girl,” he breathes out, the whimper that vibrates around his cock making his release come quicker than expected, hand bunching up your hair as he has to move you back, off his dick to stop his orgasm. he heaves, noticing the way strips of saliva connect your mouth to his dick. he moves his hand from your hair down to your lips, watching the way your mouth instinctively opens then closes around his fingers, sucking them in with pure ease.

he allows you to wet them with your saliva until he pulls them out and mumbles a soft, “come.”

he helps you up onto his lap, the metal of his gun is a cooling sensation on his heated skin as he moves back, reaching under to toss his gun elsewhere. he had his guard down now, despite the large bounties on his head, he was too focused on you, and giving you the pleasure that you deserved. as you straddle him, his fingers dared to touch the bottom of your dress, threatening to raise, “may i?”

your eyes are tantalizing when they meet his, like the threatens of the deepest lust lie within them, and billy is willing to dive in, “you may.”

his hair is messy now, like he never took off that damn hat, and when he did— he didn’t bother to fix the hair underneath.

every movement is careful, meant to be more meaningful than a quick fuck, he raises your skirt until his eyes catch on to a white lace garter that’s propped around your upper thigh. so sweet, the purposeful placement of it all, it’s like a prize for whoever gets to raise your skirt. as you sit on his lap, your arms rest on his shoulders, a hand threatening the skin on the back of his neck as his hands move back around your waist, through the silk of the corset to the strings that hold it together on the back. his eyes are stuck onto you as his fingers begin to tug at the tie of the strings, they were in a harsh knot, but billy always knew his way around things.

kissing clients was typically a line many of the women wouldn’t dare to cross, sometimes not even you, but the way his eyes kept tipping down to your lips had you threateningly close to the now faded line. as the laces of your corset loosen, your head tips down to where your lips barely brush him, you can smell the mint already before even getting a chance. your lips move to close around the toothpick that he kept in his mouth, moving to spit it out and he was quick to chase your lips. as soon as you had spit out the toothpick, his lips finally pressed against yours, allowing your freshly manicured hands to curl through his brunette hair.

the fresh smell of your rose and jasmine was quick to his nose as he inhaled you up close, tongue teasing against your lower lip ever so carefully. there was a certain thirst that billy found himself feeling as he moves to spread your mouth open with his own, allowing your tongues to both clash, the mix of spit and remnants of mint and a cigarette becoming prominent to the taste. he wanted to drink every word from your lips, to suck in your siren song like his life depended on it.

when your hips bucked up against him, needy to feel a form of friction, it had encouraged him to finally free you from the confines of your corset. your lips part when he breaks the kiss, his lips trailing kisses down to your jaw, throughout until he meets your neck, the softness of his kisses making it feel as though doves were flying through the confines of your body. when his lips begin to move to suck on the delicate skin, you hiss, “dear, dear, you can’t leave marks.”

“your rules or brothel rules?” he murmurs against your skin, moving to toss away your corset onto the floor.

“brothel rules,” you hush out, and you feel his lips curl onto your neck.

“then ‘m gonna leave as many marks as i want,” he falls back into your skin, lips taking in the skin between his teeth as he moved to mark you as his own. the desire to have a prostitute as your own was a dangerous game, but billy had been a part of many dangerous games before, and now he was pulling all his money in with the unluckiest of cards— yet he still finds himself with the pride of feeling he will win. his lips pause at one of the pulse points on your neck, noticing how your heat beat quickens, and flutters, was this typical?

he wasn’t sure, but he finds himself praying it’s a good thing. he chuckles as your hands are desperate to unbutton his shirt, pushing each wooden button through the loops with ease, you had done this a million times before, this is the only time your heart is thumping in your chest when you do, though. he moves his hand down to take a hold of one of your wrists, “easy, girl, easy.”

“you said ten minutes,” you remind him, smile dripping on your lips.

“mm, i want longer than that,” he helps you unbutton the last few before taking off his shirt, noticing how your eyes trail down his figure.

“just sayin’ that because you can’t make me cum,” you break into a soft laugh against him, and he can’t help the way a small smile curves his lips as he takes off the dress that you were wearing. your body is alike to the statues you could only dream of seeing in those beautiful stories about gods and women who ruled. women who were worshipped, even as billy knew you for mere minutes, he found himself wanting to kneel at your altar, to worship the ground you walk on. to make you cum would mean more than he imagined at first, he wanted to be that man, to pleasure you in ways others haven’t.

his fingers slip underneath the hem of your panties, immediately exposed to the wetness underneath as it coats his fingers, “can’t make you cum yet you’re so wet for me, hm?”

you bite your lip, allowing your hips to sway against his fingers as pleasure envelopes your every thought almost immediately. though billy wasn’t quite sure about what exactly to do, he had heard the other cowboys speak of this, and he hoped it delivered as much pleasure as they said when he dips a finger inside of you. you’re loose around him, wet, yet sucking him in so easily. he’s quick to add another, finding his rhythm almost immediately and getting cocky with it. he dares to let his thumb tease the edges of your clit, as if he didn’t know it was there and he was merely looking for somewhere to place it.

he notices the way your nails dig in to his scalp, biting your tongue so hard that crimson may bleed from it with ease.

billy had kissed many women, been on the brink of sex, and yet none have reacted the ways in which you do. they were quick to show how they react, every emotion not blanketed behind a curtain of embarrassment but now, despite it being your job to over exaggerate the pleasure, you found yourself shy to make noise. he moves to allow another finger to push inside of you, the pink velvet of your insides encasing his fingers with ease. he hears you gasp when his fingers threaten to curl, and he allows himself another smile. his thumb moves to your clit again, and that’s when your grip becomes lethal, biting your lip no longer becoming a guard for your moans.

“please,” you mumble out, whimpering.

“please what, princess?” you’re putty in his hands, and he’s kneading you with ease.

“i.. i need you,” you moan out, to be saying this to a wanted man, one who has killed, and committed theft, as well as escaped from prison— it was something you swore to never do. yet you were having sex with him and his touch felt so gentle it was as if it never happened, how could a man so dangerous be so kind? you feel a vein pulse from his neck as he finally pulls his fingers out, his eyes following yours as he moves his hand up to his mouth, allowing his fingers to move in between his lips and the taste of you to savor his tastebuds.

your pupils dilate at the sight of him tasting you, skin warming before you can even realize that you’re moving to take his fingers out, replacing them with your tongue as your mouth presses against his again. his hand falls on your waist, other hand guiding his dick to your cunt as he deepens the kiss to feel you moan against his mouth. your tongues fight for dominance, each movement a hunger of it’s own but yours falls submissive as soon as his dick slides into you with ease. your velvet is tighter around him than he expected, and he feels the vibrations of your whines against his tongue, mumbling a small, “you’re so big—“ against his lips.

once you reach his base, you pull away from his lips, a mere string of saliva connecting you both like a lifeline.

now you have the lead to take, your lips connecting with his neck to leave marks on him, you wonder how the other cowboys will react as your hips start swaying on his dick, riding him with ease. will they laugh at him for all the prominent hickeys? there’s no way he could hide it, you’ve heard billy had girlfriends all around in many different towns and parts of the state, what if he went back to them and they saw all the marks? it would trace back to you, you’re sure of it, but something about that fills you with a sense of pride rather than fear. you’ve always adored the outlaws, even though you were raised to be a good christian woman, a good girl. the outlaws were always the sweet talkers, as you were told from the other girls at the brothel. you were told stories about how well they treated the women, their touch being better than most the regulars, their words so dirty you’d only dream of being told it until you had finally heard it.

now you found yourself in love with the idea of trouble, as you wrap yourself in the silks of his touch and the pleasure he gave you. his head tilts back to allow you more access to the free canvas of his neck, his hand raises, then immediately smacks onto the flesh of your ass. the slap tore a cry from your throat, into the skin that coats his neck, and a plain redness forms around the mark of his hand, branding you.

somehow, this was more intimate than your previous affairs, even despite the roughness of the sex. it felt like a wild play of ballet, an opera you would only dream of seeing, the gracefulness of each movement and the sweetness that drips like honey off each sound, even the sounds of skin slapping as you ride him. you taste the bitterness of his cologne as you reach the sides of his neck, sucking the pale skin with a need to create marks that last. he’s fascinated by your every movement, if this truly was a ballet, he would find himself in the crowd, watching the dancer move with such purity even during such a lewd act.

you felt yourself curl as your orgasm builds again, and it seems he is too in the way his hips begin to rock. every movement feels like being coated in molasses, trying to swim through it, the orgasms scorching through your inner thighs to your core until it wracks your body, hitting you harder than it had any other time. you don’t know what it was about him, but you were quick to flutter around him, and that had him pulling out, stroking himself for mere seconds until white stripes fall in messy streaks across your skin.

he pulls you closer when your lips move so your head tilts onto his shoulder, both of your guys’ chests heaving as if you had just been working out, as if you were running towards danger and felt the warmth of it’s embrace reel you in. it was billy’s arms, his eyes closing for a mere second before they open again, “thought i couldn’t make you cum.”

you hate the way you smile so easily at anything he says, the way you melt into his touch, the way even though you were merely a one night stand it felt like you wanted this to be an eternity, you wanted him to be a regular.

“mm, i faked it,” you say with a smile, so clearly a lie.

you move so he slips out of you, your cunt clamping around nothing as it missed the feeling of him inside of you. soon, you reassure yourself as you stand, convinced he will be returning. poor, poor girl, you were just another victim of the sweet talkers with pretty faces. it worsens as your legs become jelly, and he’s quick to stand, hands fastening to your waist and holding it to keep you balanced. his chuckle turns to a laugh, a deep, hearty laugh, “you sure, doll?”

you roll your eyes, pressing a kiss to his cheek, somehow your lipstick remained and it kept the mark staining his cheek as you left your kiss there. then you moved, taking your clothes and putting them on, “goodnight, billy.”

#billy the kid #tom blyth #coriolanus snow #coriolanus fanfiction #coriolanus x reader #billy the kid x reader #billy the kid x you #billy the kid smut #billy the kid fanfiction #tbosas #the ballad of songbirds and snakes #smut #coriolanus smut

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sincerelyakilljoy · 1 month

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THE GOLD COIN THAT GLITTERS AND GLINTS

pairing - aventurine x gambler + debtor!fem reader length - 11.4k words warnings - nsfw/18+ content, fem!reader, some fingering (with his gloves on), slight choking, pet names (pretty girl, sweetheart, doll, etc), he's kinda mean, teasing, penetrative sex, guns (barely), gambling, aventurine whines a bit, kinda dom aventurine (?), slight coercion/threats (reader is consenting)

summary - you ran away from the IPC to penacony because of the huge debt you owed and couldnt pay. years later when youre out gambling a familiar figure appears with another offer you cant refuse.

NOTES

honestly i can see him being like this in all honesty, he definitely would be an ass tbh...this is proofread (ty to my frennn) but sorry for any mistakes :p also ive never gambled so writing that was a bit hard, so sorry if it sounds stupid

The smell of cedar and smoke fills your senses as you enter the casino, eyes scanning the floor before shifting to one of the casino’s cashier windows.

You huff as you saunter your way over to the cashier, lugging a briefcase along with you.

A sweet smile spreads along your features as you greet the cashier. “I’d like to exchange my cash.” You hum, setting your briefcase on the counter.

“For how much?” The cashier asks, clicking a few things on his kiosk before looking up at you as he reaches out and grabs the briefcase, flicking open the metal clamps and cracking it open.

“A million.” You say with a smile, watching as his face shifts with emotions you don’t even bother to acknowledge. “Hurry please, ‘m a bit busy.” Gently urging him to hurry.

Your tone is a bit rude but you don’t mean to sound like that, you’re in a rush and the face the cashier made only made you feel anxious and like he was going to take a bit too long.

The cashier only nods and hurries to transfer your money to chips, opening the briefcase to pull out the stacks of cash.

“M’sorry if I was a bit rude,” You apologize, you’re voice a bit awkward as you try to sound a bit nicer. It's not on purpose but..you’re a bit “tone deaf” per se. “I’m just in a bit of a rush.”

The cashier mumbles a “it’s fine”, clearly focused on his job at hand.

You don’t say anything more than that, only leaning forward against the counter as he deals with your money.

After a few minutes he sets a briefcase containing your poker chips on the counter, pushing the briefcase towards you. “Here you go, ma’am..”

You grab the cool handle of the briefcase, nodding a polite thank you to the cashier before walking away.

You look around the casino, looking at the games being played. Men surrounding tables with women on their arms while smoking fat cigars, some young, some much older.

You walk around a bit before seeing a poker table with an empty seat. You hum to yourself before walking over, glancing at the people seated. “Can I join?” You ask with a smile.

The other 6 people look at you, eyeing you pointedly. You can’t tell if they’re being judgemental of some sorts, their looks a bit annoying to you.

“Of course sweetheart, take a seat.” A man says, his voice drunk sounding and gruff.

You angle your head to look at him, raising a brow at the nickname he called you but you relent to not say anything more and just slide into the seat that happens to be next to the man.

As you sit the cashier deals the cards smoothly, sliding them in all directions cleanly.

After you’ve been dealt your cards you pick them up fluidly, eyeing the cards in your hands while keeping a straight face, a poker face if you will.

“Place your bet.” The dealer says, looking at the person next to him, waiting for his bet.

“Hundred thou’.” The man says, stacking his chips next to him on his left.

You swallow at the amount, a bit annoyed with how high the bet was already but what can you do?

You wait for someone to raise it but when nobody does the game starts.

You look down at your cards again, listening as the players place their bets, all of them not raising the previous price at all.

“Raise three hundred thousand.” You hum once it’s your turn, placing more chips on the table. You think to yourself whether or not it’s good to bet so much more this early on but you decide that it doesn’t matter much.

You have more money waiting for you in your account if you really needed it and to be cocky, you’re real fucking lucky.

A few at the table call while two of them fold, placing their cards face down and pushing them to the dealer before abruptly leaving, losing anything they’ve bet so far.

After the two leave the dealer places three cards face up on the table, an Ace of hearts, Seven of spades and a 3 of clovers.

You smile slightly to yourself, already seeing a in so early in the game.

Oh, you’re definitely winning this.

You won big.

Another 1.2 Million to your savings all from one match of poker. Lucky might just be your middle fucking name.

A bit smugly you get up from the poker table, collecting your neat, little chips in your briefcase, watching as the others at the table grumble curses while staring daggers at you.

You couldn’t care less. Feeling smug and cocky, winning one round is really getting to your head.

You hum a little song to yourself as you walk away, looking around for something else to play. But everything seems to be a little boring tonight, after winning so much money and one shot you didn’t know what you should play next in all honesty.

You walk around the floor, heels softly clacking on the soft, velvet floors as you eye tables for anything that even slightly grabs your attention.

That’s when you hear loud voices, someone yelling.

“This fuckers-hic- cheating..!” A drunken voice booms and nosily, you can’t help but walk over to see what’s going on.

A drunkard waving his hands at a man as a bouncer tries to grab him and calm him down.

The man seems calm, looking at the man with almost too natural looking smirk adoring his features. Blonde hair framing his face and a hat that looks like a fedora on, slightly hiding his features with rose tinted glasses on.

“Cheating? Don’t be so mad, maybe you’re just unlucky, hm?” The man says, a bit sassily while he flips a gold coin in his hand.

This seems to only enrage the drunkard who swings at the blonde man who just steps back, causing the drunk idiot to stumble and fall.

“That’s embarrassing, don’t you think?” The blonde says, a smug look on his face as he looks down at the drunk condescendingly.

You watch as the drunk gets dragged out, yelling profanities at the blonde who just shrugs it off.

You swear you’ve seen the blonde somewhere but can’t put a finger on it, so to quench your curiosity you walk over to the table.

As you walk up you look at the table, seeing its roulette you feel confident that you might get even more lucky.

You ask the dealer to join who simply says yes and you move to sit on the stool at the table, directly across from the blonde.

You attempt to get more glimpses of his face but can’t due to his hat and glasses.

The dealer calls for bets and each person places them, including yourself and the blonde across from you.

“Black, eleven.” He says, it almost seems like he’s bored as he smugly rests his chin on his palm, looking at the board as the dealer spins it.

As it spins you feel a bit nervous, roulette is more of a game of chance than anything, you just have to get lucky again.

And you do, the die landing in the slots you betted on.

You smile as chips get pushed your way, getting a slight thrill.

“Mm, seems like I wasn’t so lucky this round.” The blonde says with what seems to be a feigned sigh as he moves to pull off his hat, setting down next to him.

Then you’re painfully aware of how you recognized him.

IPC..he’s from the fucking IPC.

He smirks at you, cockily and knowingly, and you can’t help but fucking shiver from the way his eyes bore into you, almost saying “Recognize me?”

You ponder on whether or not you should act like you don’t recognize him, playing a few more times with the risk of him possibly confronting you or just walk out with your winnings with the chance of him following and confronting you.

Both seem to have the same outcome.

So you play innocent, shifting your gaze away from his with a calm face in an attempt to hide your onslaught nervousness.

You mumble your bet and push your chips forward, glancing at the blonde.

“Raise fifty million.”

He said your debt, the exact amount of money you owe to the IPC, he’s fucking with you.

You clench your jaw to save face, chewing at the inside of your cheek as you stare down at your chips.

He laughs, the sound snapping you out of whatever daze you’re in.

“I’m kidding, raise it five hundred thousand.” He hums, pushing his chips forward as he eyes you pointedly before saying his color and number.

You swallow at the eye contact, internally screaming at yourself to just leave but you don’t, either way you’d seem suspicious no matter what you did so you decide to stay, matching his bet.

The dealer spins the board and you just feel dizzy watching it, sudden waves of anxiety washing over you as you think about what might happen later.

You haven’t paid your debt in over 5 years, deciding you’d rather disappear and be a fugitive to the IPC than pay the debt you owed.

You only had them come after you once and that’s when you initially met the blonde.

Aventurine.

He was cynical, cocky and arrogant, wearing a smirk while threatening you.

The IPC had come for you when you still lived in the underground city of Belobog, broke and stupid you decided to take money from them as a loan.

A stupidly large amount of money that you didn’t even know what to do with.

Initially you didn’t want to ask for much, only a thousand or so but greed got the best of you and you just wanted to get money, so you said the price. Fifty million.

When you got the money you were shocked, the check was so huge you didn’t even think you could cash it in at the bank. You didn’t spend much of the money until you heard more about the IPC, when they started to get exposed for their inhumanity.

“You took how much from the IPC?!” Your boss nearly blew your eardrums out with her shouting and you only looked at her stupidly, like you were caught doing something obscene.

“F..fifty mil- but I’ll pay it back! I’ll just take it slow..y’know..” You mumble, rubbing the back of your neck nervously as you lean back against the bar's counter.

“Girl, I don’t think you know how serious the IPC are about their money…” Her tone is serious, eyes boring into you with worry and fear. “You don’t understand what they’ll do to get every last dollar back, down to the penny.”

You roll your eyes, picking up the broom that was leaning on the counter next to you.

“What? They'll take my stuff? Newsflash, I don’t have shit.” You hum ignorantly, slowly starting to sweep the floor.

“Girl, they will take you.” She grabs your wrist, it’s not tight or anything but she squeezes ever so slightly to let you know, she’s not kidding.

“If you don’t pay it back in the time they gave you in your contract, you're screwed. You don’t know what they will do to ya’.”

You roll your eyes for the upteenth time, completely ignoring her worries even though she seems scared for you.

“Honestly, I’ll pay it back. Don’t worry too much, I’ll be okay.” You sigh softly, placing your hands on your boss’s shoulders, massaging softly in an attempt to soothe her worries.

“It’s not like they’ll threaten to kill me or anything.”

Those words rang through your head a year later, after missing nearly every payment required of you. It was only a matter of time they came for you.

You pant heavily, watching as IPC troops stormed into your dingy, little apartment that you made home. Breaking picture frames, plates and anything else that got in their way.

You’re backed up into a corner of your kitchen, two IPC troops pointing guns at you as they seem to wait for someone else to come deal with you.

“W-what are y-” you’re interrupted by a gun shoving you in your stomach, pushing you back into the kitchen counter.

“Shut your mouth!” The trooper shouted, keeping his gun pressed to your abdomen, twisting it into your skin, making you cry out.

You stand there, shaking as you watch them tear you home apart.

In that moment all you can do is regret, regret taking the money while deep down knowing you weren’t going to even be able to pay the monthly payments, especially with the insane interest that was added to your debt.

With shuddering breaths you watch as someone else enters your apartment, seemingly dressed to the nines, you ponder on whether or not you could even afford a single piece of string used for his clothes.

He walks in, rudely stepping on the photos that were left scattered on the floor. He looks around, humming at the sigh of your home in shambles before turning to you.

“My, my…couldn’t have expected this..could you?” His voice is sickeningly condescending while keeping up his feigned friendly tone as he walks towards you, pulling off his rose tinted glasses that he simply tucks into a pocket.

You clench your jaw as he walks towards you, getting so close you’re practically huffing the expensive cologne he wears.

The IPC troops step out of the kitchen, leaving you and the blonde alone.

“Hm, this place looks awfully…” He starts, turning his head to look at the state of your home. “Lived in, hm?” He looks at you, tilting his head to the side as he wears a disgusting smirk.

You don’t reply, only staring up at him in hatred and fear, knuckles turning white from how hard you’re gripping the counter behind you.

“Can’t speak? That’s fine,” He shrugs, his eyes never leaving your face as he steps back a bit, giving you a bit of room in the small kitchen.

“You’re at least a bit aware of who I am, yes?” He asks, folding his arms as he looks at you.

You shake your head slowly. “I only know the IPC in general…nothing more.” You respond, your voice a bit shaky as you try to hold yourself together.

“Well, you do know what debt collectors are in general, right?” He hums, looking at you as he waits for you to answer.

And when you don’t, he’s stepping forward once again. You raise a brow as you watch him step forward before a sharp yelp is pulled from your lips as his gloved hand comes out to roughly grab your jaw, yanking your face so close to him his nose brushes against your cheek.

“Right?” He sneers into your ear his tone losing its feigned friendliness, only a tone of disgust and malice lacing his voice. He tightens his grip on your jaw and it feels like he might be able to just pull it off.

You wince at the feeling, feeling your eyes water from the pain alone. So you squeak out a “yes” and thankfully he lets go but doesn’t step back.

“I’d advise you to use your words,” He sighs, sounding all too relaxed but it makes sense cause he’s not the one in the situation at hand. “I can be patient but at the moment patience isn’t enough, due to the fact we’ve already have been soo patient and kind to you for the past year.”

You listen in silence, rubbing your sore jaw as you start daggers at him.

“What’s with that look? You’ve more or less brought this upon yourself..” He laughs and it makes you feel sick to your stomach. “Let me explain to you what’s going to happen from today onwards,” He hums, taking out a gold coin before starting to toy with it in his fingers.

“Right now you still owe about forty nine million eight hundred fifty dollars, somehow you managed to pay the one hundred and fifty thousand dollars that you owed one month but for some reason you never paid the monthly payments again.” He looks you up and down, flicking the coin up into the air before catching it in his hand.

“So, what happened to all the money you took?” He asks, tilting his head to the side slightly as he stares at you, still wearing a smug smile.

“I..I gave it away to people.” You lie, although you did give a lot of it away to friends, family or others in need you put the rest of it up. Why didn’t you just pay the monthly payments with that money? You didn’t even know, assuming that the IPC wouldn’t do anything to you for that money and the fact they probably have trillions of dollars to their name.

What’s a measly fifty million?

Clearly a lot if they’re doing this.

“Gave it away?” He repeats, raising a brow. “Generous aren’t you?” He says, before stepping closer to you once again.

“Let’s make a bet.” He positions the gold coin on his thumb and forefinger in a flicking position. “I’ll flip a coin, if you guess which side it lands on correctly I’ll give you some leeway, seventy five percent less interest and another year and a half to pay it back. How’s that sound?”

You stare at him with uncertainty, swallowing thickly as your hands tighten into fists, nails digging into your palm, leaving deep crescent shapes behind in your skin.

This man just stormed your house and trashed it to hell…how are you supposed to believe a single thing he says.

“I know, how are you supposed to believe a thing I say?” He says, practically reading your mind and it scares you a bit. “Trust me…you’ll want to take this offer.”

His tone feels like he’s not lying and the way he’s staring at you feels like burning holes right into you, silently telling you to hurry up and answer.

You exhale a shaky sigh before nodding. “Deal.”

“Hmph, good choice.” He hums before flipping the coin, smoothly catching it with his left hand. “Heads.” His voice is low as he stares you in the eyes, piercing you with his gaze as he clenches the count in his gloved hand.

“Tails.” You mutter, your voice shaky and quiet as you advert your gaze, looking down at his hand to avoid his eyes. Holding your breath in fearful anticipation as you wait for the reveal.

Slowly he opens his hand, the coin flipped on tails.

You let out a shuddering breath of relief as you see the coin, basically collapsing back against the counter as you hold back tears that threaten to roll down your cheeks.

“Awe, relieved are you?” He coos, voice sickeningly sweet and laced with condescendence.

He moves closer to you, invading your space as you back up instinctively, bumping against the counter that traps you. He reaches out and grabs your chin, not as harshly as before but firm enough to force you to look up at him.

“You’re quite lucky and here I was, ready to drag you out of here by the hair.” He laughs cynically, trailing one of his gloved fingers along your jaw. “Next time,” He starts, inhaling through his nose. “I won’t be so lenient. Next time, I’ll make sure you pay off your debt by any means the IPC sees fit, and trust me when I say this,”

He leans in, breath fanning against your ear. “You’ll fucking wish you were dead.”

Those words ring in your ears, years later, in this moment. You’re screwed, screwed in ways you couldn’t even imagine.

You regret not just paying it back, you should’ve just paid it back. You don’t even know why you got so cocky, developing a gambling habit and deciding to run away, changing your name and doing whatever you can to disappear.

You went to Penacony, thinking it may be a safe haven due to how many people come and go there..but clearly it isn’t, now that you’re stuck in this unwinnable situation.

If you could, you'd drop to your knees and pray, maybe even lick the bastard's shoes while you’re at it. But you’re quickly snapped out of your thoughts when you see chips getting pushed your way.

“Miss? You’ve won again.” The dealer says simply, pushing chips towards you.

You inhale sharply, knowing the amount may well be over the money you’ve already won. You’re feeling real lucky now.

You decide to push your luck.

So, you put on a pretty smile, collect your chips and fucking book it.

Well not exactly, running in the casino will just make you seem stupid and suspicious so you turn, take your winnings and walk away, walking to a kiosk to cash out.

Maybe it’s the paranoia but you swear that you can feel Aventurines eyes boring into you, feeling that piercing gaze sting your back, even when you’re away from where that man is. Yeah, you need to hurry the fuck up.

Quickly, you shove your winning into your briefcase before speed walking out of the casino.

You contemplate whether or not you should go back to your hotel room. The IPC could be there, waiting for you to show up.

Instead of heading straight home, you go and walk around the city, trying to figure out what to do and where to go next. You’ve already done so much to get away, erasing yourself from Belobog completely and they still found you.

At this point it seems like you’ll have to fake your own death just to get away.

You walk around Penacony, taking in the sights as if it’s your first time there. Honestly, you’re just doing this to distract yourself. And you’re thinking and thinking about what you could’ve done differently back then and the answer is so painfully obvious. Never take the money.

If you felt like it, you would kick yourself for being such an idiot.

You walk through Penacony’s shopping district, not looking to buy anything at the moment but it’s nice to just look.

As you’re walking you see three IPC troops in the distance, talking to some woman while showing them a photo.

You freeze, wondering if they could be asking about you.

I mean, there’s tons of people in debt with the IPC, they wouldn’t do this much for one person…right?

Wrong.

You watch as the woman glances around, the IPC troops filling her gaze before their sights land on you.

One of them shouts at you and this time, you fucking book it.

Quickly pulling your heels off your feet to carry as you run in the direction of your hotel. You’re sure they’re on your ass, hearing heavy footsteps behind you as you run.

As you’re running you see a tight alley, dark and long. You look over your shoulder and see that they’re far behind but close enough to catch you if you take one wrong move.

Quickly you duck into the alley, hiding behind random clutter that’s in the alley.

You wait a second before hearing the troops stomp past the alley, yelling “where is she?!”.

You sigh a breath of relief, clutching your chest. You can’t believe you managed to lose them, panting and tired you laugh slightly to yourself, wondering how the hell they were so stupid.

You wait about thirty minutes before walking out the alley and running to your hotel, which conveniently was nearby. Although you look silly, running barefoot while carrying your heels and a big ass suitcase, you couldn’t care, hurrying into the building and to your hotel room.

You shove yourself into your room, shutting the door behind you before collapsing back against it, panting and breathing heavily as you slide down onto the floor, ultimately relieved.

Once you’re calmed down and caught your breath you get up to look around your hotel room, making sure nobody’s in there hiding to catch you off guard. You look in the kitchen area, being so paranoid you open the cabinets, searching the inside ‘cause honestly, the assholes could be hiding anywhere.

You check the bathroom next, yanking open the shower curtain and sighing a breath of relief as you see nobody’s there. You walk out the bathroom, sighing as you start to unzip your dress, exhausted and in dire need of a shower. You start to slip out your dress when you hear a voice clear its throat.

You whip your head around and see the blonde bastard, comfortably sitting in the recliner that came with your room.

You don’t even know how and when he got in but the thought of him being able to come in without you noticing sends a chill up your spine.

“Nice room,” Aventurine hums, looking at you with a disgusting smirk that makes your blood run cold as he flips his gold coin in his fingers. “Now, how can you afford this room, a trip to the beautiful place of Penacony and of course, your gambling habit but cant pay back the debt you owe?” He sneers, a disgusting tone of voice that hides his hostility, a mocking sound of friendliness slipping from his lips.

You can't even respond, you've been caught. You stand in the mini hallway of your hotel room, hands balled into fists as you try to think of something to say but you can't. You're scared, really fucking scared. All you can think is about his threats, is he going to kill you? Enslave you to the IPC as some sort of labor worker until you pay off your debt?

You're frozen, completely frozen even as he stands and walks towards you, piercing eyes boring into you, feeling like he can burn holes straight through your body with his eyes alone.

You take a deep, shuddering breath as he gets closer to you, eyes already watering just from his presence. “I’m s..sorry..” You mumble, looking at him a bit pitifully.

“Hm,” Aventurine grabs your balled fists, easily opening your hand, revealing deep crescents dug into your skin from your nails. You flinch with his every movement, breath hitching as he unballs your fists. “You're only sorry you got caught, be honest with your apologies.” He runs his fingers over the marks on your palm, tracing circles over them. “Honestly, it wasn't very hard to find you. Rather simple actually.” He hums, releasing your hands. “It was a bit obvious you'd be here but since you've done so much to get rid of yourself, it took us a while. But you know what happens now, yes?”

You're dead silent, not even knowing what to say in this situation, you can't apologize, you can't bargain and you can't pay. You can only beg.

“i..i'm sorry.. I swear.. please..do..don't..” You start to cry, shaking and staring down at your feet and your hands move to clutch at your dress. “P..please…” You say with a grovely tone, voice shaky as you try to look up at him, eyes bleary with tears making it hard to see him, but you don't even know if you want to see his face.

“Aww, don't cry,” Aventurine coos, voice laced with feigned sweetness as he reaches up to cup your cheek, gloved thumb swiping your tears away. You flinch away from his touch, still crying and sniffling as he looks down at you. His touch is disgustingly tender, softly brushing away your tears as if he cares but when you look at the look on his face it's one of condescendence and power, smirking as if he's getting a kick out of seeing your tears.

“Do you want help? Ill bargain with you one last time, how does that sound?” His voice disturbs you, making you shudder in fear. “If not, I'll just take you away now.”

It sounds like he wants you to take the deal, his second sentence a clear threat to force you into taking the deal. And like an idiot, you silently nod.

He smirks even wider at this, both hands moving to cup your face and force you to look up at him, his hold is firm, making sure you wont move your head to look away. “Is that a yes? Use your words, sweetheart.” He disgusts you, you hate him. Your mind screams insults at him, but all you do is play exactly into his hand. “Y..yes..”

You feel horrible, but you dug yourself this grave and you’re painfully aware of that.

He grins widely, hands holding your face firmly. “Spend the night with me.”

You do a double take, flinching and attempting to move away but his hands slide down to your waist, gripping it firmly to keep you still while squeezing hard enough that the feeling has you wincing in pain.

You look at him with a shocked expression, eyes wide with your brows furrowed and curved. You open your mouth as if you were going to say something but can't get anything out a few sputters of jumbled words.

“Huh? Cat got your tongue?” He coos, tilting your face up with his thumb and forefinger, his lips brushing against yours as he speaks. “Take this deal and your debt is gone, zero cents owed to your name..”

You dont reply, eyes shut as you think. You hate this man but you can't deny that he is attractive and you really need the IPC off your ass. Pushing down your pride you respond. “Okay..”

You accepted the deal all too quickly. Selling yourself out without a second thought or consideration of how just accepting this deal would affect you in the future.

After you utter those words his lips are on yours, kissing you in a way that contradicts the way he acts. Your hands tug at the sides of your dress, as you squeeze your eyes shut, unsure of what to do.

His gloved hand slides up to cup the side of your neck as he breaks the kiss, looking at you with low eyes. “First kiss, hm?” He murmurs, his thumb swiping against your bottom lip.

“You wish.” You mutter, looking away from him. You can’t help though as your breath hitches, feeling his thumb against your bottom lip.

“Ah, feisty aren’t you? Yet here you are, at my mercy.” He grins, sliding his hand to grab the back of your neck, tugging you closer so you’re pressed flush against him. You gasp at the movement, your own hand coming up to grab at his forearm, gripping onto the expensive fabric.

“Quite pretty too…it’s too bad you make such stupid decisions..” He murmurs before capturing your lips once again, his free hand grabbing your hip gently and pulling you closer against him while his other hand stays on the back of your neck, massaging the skin with his thumb.

You slowly feel your resolve crumble, the line between circumstances and your own free will starting to blur as you lean more into the kiss, your hands sliding up to grab onto his shoulders, squeezing them slightly.

You feel his hand trailing down your spine to your lower back, splaying his hand out and gently pushing you forward so you press against him more firmly.

You sigh shakily against his lips, letting your body press more against his as you wrap your arms around his neck, pulling him impossibly closer.

He groans softly, his tongue teasing the seam of your lips before gently slipping into your mouth, tongue sliding against yours while his hands slip to your hips, grabbing them and pulling your hips against his, his leg gently nudging between yours.

You gasp into the kiss when he pulls your hips against his, your fingers starting to tangle in his blonde hair as you kiss him with more urgency, pressing your chest flush against his as you tilt your head opposite to his, further deepening the kiss as you whine softly.

He nips at your lower lip with his teeth, leaving a stinging pain behind before soothing it with his tongue, making you gasp shakily in response. “You're so needy,” He muses, starting to trail wet kisses and love-bites along your jawline and down your neck while his hands squeeze your hips firmer.

He bunches the part of your dress that's by your hips in his hands, letting it ride up your legs before he nudges his thigh up between them, pressing against your most sensitive spot. You leg out a shuddering moan before moving your hand to cover your mouth.

He pulls away to look at you, his once brutal gaze turned to one clouded with lust. “Don't cover your mouth sweetheart,” He coos, his voice lower and throaty but still holding that same condescending tone as he leans in and you can swear you hear the smirk in his voice when he whispers in your ear. “I want to hear those pitiful, little moans you make.”

Right after saying that, his grip tightens on your hips as he starts to move you, guiding you to grind against his thigh while he sucks and nips at your neck; leaving dark spots behind that feel hot on your skin. You let out a broken moan in response, your arms wrapping around his neck tighter while you bury your face into his shoulder. Fingers digging into his clothed upper back while you gasp and whimper, starting to move your hips along with his guidance.

At this point you can feel how embarrassingly wet you are, the insides of your thighs slick and your panties aren’t faring any better, practically drenched at this point.

You hear him let out a breathy laugh as you start to move your hips on your own. He runs his tongue along your neck to your earlobe before nipping it. “Fuck youre soaked..i can feel it through my pants..” He murmurs into your ear as he starts to move your hips faster against his thigh. “These were expensive too..are you going to pay for the cleaning or am i gonna have to add this to your debt..?” He smirks, running his tongue along the shell of your ear.

You whine in response, knowing that any words that might come out your mouth will just sound like gibberish.

You start to ride his thigh faster, trying to get to the edge as soon as possible. He groans in your ear softly as he feels you move faster, his hands tightening around your hips with a bruising grip as he laves his tongue along the sensitive skin of your neck.

Your thighs start to twitch as you feel yourself getting closer to the edge, the pressure in your lower stomach building quickly as your moans and movements get needier. Aventurine starts to trail kisses down your neck to your collarbone, his left hand leaving your hip to reach up and tug the straps of your dress off your shoulders, causing your dress to slack and fall.

He tugs the top of your dress down, freeing your breasts from the confines of your clothes, causing you to shudder as you feel the cold air of the room hit your breasts. He smirks and raises a brow, looking at you with blown pupils when he sees that you're not wearing a bra, his left hand sliding down your shoulder to cup one of your breasts, his gloved hand squeezing and massaging while he leans down, dragging his tongue along your breast before nipping the swell of it, making you gasp.

“So fucking pretty…” He groans before capturing your nipple in his mouth, swirling his tongue around the hardening bud before sucking harshly. He presses his thigh against you more firmly, drawing out a moan he finds oh-so pretty.

You rut your hips against his thigh faster, feeling like the building pressure in your abdomen is going to burst at any second.

A whimper bubbles in your throat as you feel his lips latch onto your breast while his hand fondles your breast, making you shiver and whine as you flutter your eyes shut and toss your head back slightly. One of your hands slides up to tangle in his hair, tugging at the blonde strands as you push his face further into your chest.

He groans against your nipple as he feels you tugging his hair, taking it as a sign of encouragement. He nips at your sensitive bud with his teeth, drawing a sharp gasp from your lips. He soothes the sting as he flattens his tongue, dragging it along your nipple, looking up at you with low lidded eyes.

Your breathing grows ragged as you get closer to your release, hips bucking against his thigh needily while lewd gasps and moans fall from your lips, Your fingers tighten in his hair as you mumble breathlessly, eyes watering as you crack them open. “I…ah…m’gonna…” You sob, words nearly incoherent as you feel the pressure in your stomach ready to burst.

“Hm? What’d you say? Use your words, sweetheart…” He coos teasingly, sliding his hand down from your breast to the spot between your legs, just barely touching your clit through your panties.His middle and ring fingers slowly starting to circle it, as his eyes flick up to your face with a wicked smirk gracing his lips.

You can’t muster out a thing as he starts to barely circle your clit through your panties while his thigh stays pressed against your cunt. You let out a pitiful sob as you buck your hips, grinding against his thigh as you desperately chase your orgasm.

“Hah…m…m’gonna cum...” You whimper, gasping and sobbing as you get ever so closer to your impending high.

“Ah...you're gonna cum, huh? Come on, pretty, cum on my thigh...” Aventurine hums, leaning up to press his lips to your throat as he starts to circle your clit faster, quickly bringing you to the edge.

You let out a broken moan as you feel your orgasm crashing over you like a wave. Your hips squirming as your thighs twitch and shake slightly. Your fingers tug at his hair roughly as you try to ground yourself as you grow dizzy and your body feels warm and fuzzy.

Your arousal leaks out of you, drenching anything in its path. Your thighs grow sticky and Aventurine’s pants are getting drenched as you cum, shuddering gasps and whines falling from your lips.

Aventurine smirks as he looks up at you, seeing the blissed out expression on your face as you reach your high makes him grow even harder in his slacks. Straining against the zipper of his pants. His fingers continue to circle your sensitive nub, cooing sweet praises in your ear and peppering kisses your warm cheeks as he works you through your orgasm.

“Mh...you’re so messy...” He murmurs into your ear, his voice low and hushed as he speaks. “Just look at what you’ve done, beautiful...” He pulls back, free hand coming up you clasp around your jaw as he tilts your head down, making you look at the sticky mess you’ve made.

His thigh is soaked. His white pant-leg sticks to the top of his thigh, wet with your arousal. You whine when you feel him pull his fingers away from your fabric covered cunt.

He hums softly as he spreads his fingers apart, sticky webs of your cum spreading between his gloved fingers that shine with your slick and you can’t help but gasp at the sight.

“I didn’t know you’d make such a mess, now my pants are ruined…” he chortles, his hand that’s gripping your jaw squeezes your cheeks together, causing your lips to puff out to a cute pout as you whine.

“How are you going to pay me back, sweetheart? Hm?” He tilts your face up to his, his gaze intense as he stares you in the eyes, wearing a smug grin.

“I dont…I don’t know...” You babble, your eyes a reflection of your neediness and lust as you look up at him. Your breathing still ragged and hindered.

“Mhm…I have an idea,” Aventuring sneers, looking down at you with a condescending smirk. “How about you clean it up, sweetheart…?”

He brings his slick coated fingers up to your lips while his other hand that was once gripping your jaw moves to grasp your chin, holding it between his thumb and forefinger.

He drags his gloved digits across your lips, smearing your arousal on them. “Open up.” He coos, gently pushing his fingers between your lips and into your mouth.

You part your lips more, letting him push his fingers further into your mouth. You whine as you taste yourself off his fingers, feeling dirty for doing this but you can’t help but enjoy it, fluttering your eyes shut as you willingly take his fingers into your mouth.

His smirk grows wider as he watches you take his fingers into your mouth. He pushes his fingers deeper into your mouth, causing you to gag slightly. “Suck them, pretty girl…” He breathes, pressing his fingers down against the flat of your tongue.

You close your lips around his fingers, starting to suck them slowly. You swirl your tongue around his fingers, moaning softly at the taste of your arousal in your tongue.

“Uh huh, just like that…” He coos, his hand that was holding your chin sliding to the back of your neck, cupping it as he pulls back to look at you. “Such a good girl…”

He slowly pulls his fingers from your mouth, a string of saliva connecting your lips to his gloved digits as he smirks down at you.

He snickers, looking at your flushed face. “God, you’re just a mess, aren’t you?” His hand that’s on the back of your neck tugs you towards him, his lips brushing against yours as he tilts his head, looking at you with lidded eyes.

“I’ll fix that…” He murmurs before pressing his lips to yours. His lips are soft and pillowy as they move against yours, his tongue sweeping into your mouth as his gloved hand slides down to your hips, grasping tightly while his thumbs trace small circles against them.

You sigh shakily as he kisses you, arms sliding up to wrap around his neck as you tug him closer, whimpering into his mouth as he tightens his grip on your hips, dressing bunching up in his hands as he firmly pressing his hips to yours.

He starts to walk you backwards to your bed, keeping your body close while never breaking the kiss. You feel the back of your legs hit the bed before he’s pushing you back onto the bed. He climbs on top of you, straddling you as he keeps up his feverish kisses.

You wrap your legs around his hips, locking your ankles together behind his lower back, whining into his mouth and letting your tongue slide with his as you kiss him needily.

Aventurine breaks the kiss, moaning softly as he starts grinding his hips against yours, rubbing against you so perfectly you whimper and arch your back against his body.

He buries his face into the crook of your neck, lips latched to the soft skin as he sucks a dark spot to the skin of your neck.

His hand slides up and under you, lifting you slightly as his hand finds the zipper of your dress, his other hand moving to the middle of your back, lifting you up more to make it easier as he unzips your dress.

He unzips your dress, slowly sliding the zippier down, causing your dress to slack. “May I..?” He whispers against your neck, eyes peering up at you.

You nod sheepishly, looking away to avoid his blazing gaze. He grins, hands sliding down to the hem of his dress, pulling it down and off your body, discarding the fabric somewhere on the floor.

He sits up to look at you, taking in the sight of your half-naked body, your panties the only thing left on.

He lets out a shaky breath, gloved hands sliding up your lower stomach. One of his hands slides to your waist, squeezing the soft skin there while the other moves up to cup your breast, caressing the soft flesh there.

“So fucking gorgeous…can’t take my eyes off you..” His voice sounds shaky and breathy, his hips shifting to press against you harder, letting you feel how turned on he is.

You gasp at the feeling of his gloved hands all over your body, caressing and groping you as you lie beneath him, biting your bottom lip to quiet whatever pitiful moans that threaten to fall from your lips.

He starts to grind himself against you, the bulge in his pants pressing against your sensitive clit covered by your drenched panties.

He moans, sounding pretty and whiny as he leans in to bury his face in your neck, his hand starting to roll your nipple between his thumb and forefinger all while he ruts his hips against you, desperate to feel you.

“You feel so good… ” He mumbles, his tongue licking at previous marks he’s left on your neck. You moan desperately, hands clutching at the fabric of his jacket, pulling and tugging.

You need him so badly, body trembling with each roll of his hips, you only feel more desperate and needy. You whine as you feel his tongue lavish your neck, your legs wrapping around him tightly.

“Ah…I need you…so bad…” Words a breathy whisper as you grow more needy for him. You start to move your hips in tandem with his, whining shakily.

He pulls away from your neck, nuzzling his cheek against yours as he whispers. “Tell me what you want…I’ll give it to you…” His words a shaky rasp as his hands squeeze your breasts, thumbs rolling over your nipples.

You can barely get the words out, everything coming from your lips a breathless mumble. “I need you inside me…please…”

Hearing your words something in him snaps, turning off any critical thinking that’s wired in his brain. “I’ll give you it. I’ll give you everything you want…”

His hands slide down your body to the waistband of your panties, teasingly slipping his fingers under the hem before slowly dragging your panties down your legs while starting to trail kisses down your neck to your collarbone, nipping at the skin there.

You let out shuddering breaths as he teases you, purposely dragging on the removal of your panties. You moan and whimper as he trails kisses along the heated skin of your neck down to your collarbone, a shaky gasp escaping your lips as you feel his teeth nipping at the exposed skin there.

You let out a sigh of needy relief as he finally pulls your panties off, tossing them to the floor, presumably by your dress.

He pulls away from you once again, eyeing you more hungrily than before as he looks at your naked body, taking in the sight, trying to further memorize every curve of your body.

He starts to pull off his jacket, tossing it onto the recliner he was sitting on earlier. You’d roll your eyes at how he’s taking more care with his clothes than yours, but clearly, it’s the last thing on your mind right now.

He gazes down at you, eyes catching sight of your glistening folds. He reaches out, dragging a gloved digit along your slit teasingly. “You’re so wet, it’s cute.” He smirks, his words coming out breathily. The smoothness of his voice is gone, replaced with a tone of need and lust.

“You want me here? Wanna feel me inside you…? Tell me.” He sighs, tilting his head slightly as he pushes two of his fingers inside of you, hazed eyes watching how your cunt swallows his fingers up so easily.

You gasp and buck your hips as you feel his fingers slide inside you, your walls clamping down on his digits as he starts to slowly thrust them inside you, his thumb moving to circle your clit.

You whine and shake your head, looking up at him with needy eyes clouded with lust. “I don’t…want your fingers…” You mumble between shaky gasps. “I want…I need you.”

Aventurine can’t help but wear a smirk on his lips, just the sight of you so needy, practically begging beneath him has him reeling and the thing is, you don’t even know how badly he needs you.

“Okay, gorgeous...” He murmurs, slowly pulling his fingers out of you, leaving with an empty feeling in your lower stomach that’ll soon be satiated. “I’ll give you just what you want.”

Aventurine pulls away, letting out a shuddering breath as his hands slide down, deftly unbuckling his belt, the clinking of the metal ringing in your ears as you watch him.

After getting his belt unbuckled he quickly unzips his pants, tugging them down just enough to let him pull himself from the confines of his clothing.

He lets out a shaky sigh as he frees himself, and in that moment you realize how desperate he really is for you.

You can’t help but shamelessly stare at his length, it’s lengthy and pretty with it’s tip flushed pink; practically oozing precum as it twitches. It’s a sight for sore eyes.

Aventurine hisses as he strokes himself, his thumb running over his tip, collecting the precum to smear on his shaft.

He glances up at you, raising a brow when he sees how you’re eyeing him. “Like what you see…?” He grins, leaning in and pressing his lips to yours in a kiss that barely lasts a second before he’s pulling away again, gazing down at you.

“I do…” You sigh, hand reaching out to gently wrap around his length. You slowly start to slide your hand up and down his shaft.

Aventurine gasps softly, his face nuzzling into your neck as you stroke him slowly. “God…you’re killing me…” He mumbles, his hands sliding up to your hips, wrapping around them. “Let me feel you…” He kisses you again, this time it’s needy and a bit sloppy, devoid of any sense of restraint.

You moan softly into the kiss, hand gliding along his cock. He whines into your mouth, his hands squeezing your hips even tighter as his hips buck into your hand in time with your strokes.

After a minute he breaks the kiss, panting as he leans in to rest his forehead against yours. One of his hands moves to where your hand is, gently pushing your hand away. “I don’t need any of that...” He says simply, his voice low and quiet.

“…You sure?” You whisper, hands sliding up his chest, feeling the soft fabric of his expensive clothes under your fingertips. “I want to.”

You want to touch him, even though you hate him? Do you even hate him anymore? Has your opinion on him really changed so much just from this moment? He used to scare you but now you’re yearning for him… Have you really lost your common sense?

You bury these thoughts in the back of your head, saving them for yourself later when you finally have to face the reality of your actions right now.

He shakes his head, pressing a wet kiss to the side of your neck before nipping your skin. “I don’t need you to touch me, beautiful.”

He sits up, his face flushed and hair a mess. His gloved hands slide up your legs and to your thighs as he hums, gazing down at you with intense eyes. His hands travel to your inner thighs, gently pushing them open as he shifts to position himself between your legs.

Aventurine drags a gloved finger up your slit teasingly, making you whine and shift your hips. “Stop teasing already…” You mumble, brows furrowed as you look up with a slight pout on your face.

He laughs softly as your expression, a smug look playing on his face. “Don’t worry sweetheart, just wanted a taste…” He murmurs before bringing his finger to his lips, licking your arousal off the digit as he gazes down at you, his eyes never leaving yours.

Your breath hitches as you watch him do this, feeling yourself get impossibly more wet than before. You feel your cheeks heat up with slight embarrassment. “Don’t look at me while you do that…” You mutter, slightly turning your head to look away from him.

“Don’t be so shy,” He smirks, suddenly regaining the steadiness in his voice, not sounding as shaky and whiny as before. “You taste sweet.” He murmurs, as he grabs your legs, moving them to wrap around his waist. “I’ll taste you more next time…”

You furrow your brows, looking up at him with crooked eyebrows. “There won’t be a next time.”

Aventurine looks at you, a smug smile on his face. “We’ll see.”

You don’t bother to respond with any other smart-ass comment or a remark, choosing to focus on what’s happening in the moment.

He leans in more, one of his hands grabbing your thigh while the other wraps around his length. He rubs his tip along your drenched folds, making you whimper and whine, hips squirming against his hold.

His hand tightens its grip on your hip, silently urging you to hold still. He rolls his hips forwards, grinding his cock against your slick cunt, teasingly rubbing his swollen tip against your clit as he looks at you with a smirk.

You moan softly, eyes fluttering shut as you feel his length sliding against you, pressing against your clit instead of where you need him right now. “...Just...fucking…” You mumble, cracking your eyes open to look up at him, seeing him stare down at you with lust.

“Just what? I’m not a mind reader, doll.” He hums, shifting his hips slightly so that his tips pressing against your entrance. “Let me guess...You want me here, yeah? Want me inside you…?” He coos, leaning down to press a kiss to your jawline. “Tell me, pretty…you don’t wanna keep waiting, do you?”

You whine and shake your head, whimpering as you feel his tip pressing against your entrance. “P..please…put it in…” You gasp, eyes low and lidded as you look up at him, a needy look on your face.

“There you go… Wasn’t hard to use your words, now was it..?” He murmurs, nipping at your earlobe as he presses his hips forward, slowly pressing his cock inside you.

You gasp as you feel him pressing into you, slowly stretching you wider. Your arms move to wrap around his neck, burying your face into his shoulder.

He slides in inch by inch, groaning softly as he feels the warmth of your walls hug his cock tightly, squeezing and pulsing around him needily.

You clutch onto him tightly while panting, feeling the sting of the stretch when he finally bottoms out, his cock buried deep inside you, top of his cock nudging against your cervix.

He holds still for a moment, pressing kisses to your shoulder as he waits for you to get used to his size. “You’re so tight…it’s must’ve been awhile, hm?” He murmurs into your ear, you swear you can hear the smirk in his voice as he whispers to you. “How’s long it’s been, sweetheart…?”

He starts to roll his hips forward, slowly thrusting into you with long strokes. “Do you not wanna tell me, pretty girl…?” He hums, running his tongue up, along your neck before nipping at the skin of your jawline.

You whine as he starts to thrust into you, soft moans falling from your lips as you flutter your eyes shut. “I..I don’t know…” You mutter, voice shaky as you speak. “It’s been too long…few years…”

You don’t want to admit it but it’s been well over a few weeks or months. Not having sex since you still lived in Belobog…

He grins at this, feeling smug at the thought of him being first in a long time, and he can tell just by how you’re acting, moaning with each slow drag of his hips, clutching onto him tightly and squeezing around his length like a vice, when he’s barely fucked you yet… It’s now feeling very obvious to him you haven’t felt like this in awhile.

He hums softly, his gloved hands sliding to your hips, grasping them tightly. “Then I guess I’ll have to screw you real good, huh?”

He starts to speed up his movements, pulling your hips along with his, rolling his hips into you at a pace that’s just perfect.

You whimper, hands grasping at the back of his shirt as you feel him thrust into you deeper and harder, soft smacks filling the room from your hips slapping against his.

He groans against your neck, one of his hands sliding up to wrap around your throat, squeezing slightly as he grinds into you. “You feel so good...” He mumbles, teeth nipping at your shoulder while you moan and gasp.

You whine as you feel his gloved hand wrap around your throat, squeezing hard enough to make your face feel warm but gently enough you can still breathe.

Your legs wrap around his hips, locking at the ankle as you pull him closer to you, desperate to feel him deeper inside you.

Aventurine moans shakily as he feels your legs wrap around him tightly, urging him closer. He starts to speed his pace up more, fighting the urge to slam into you with all of his strength.

His hand on your hip pulls you in tandem with his thrusts, hips meeting his halfway as he thrusts into you, feeling your walls twitch around his length.

Lewd noises escape your lips as you feel him pull you along with his movements. You feel him shift his hips before starting to slam into you harder.

You let out a loud gasp, feeling his tips slamming against your g-spot. You tighten your arms and legs around him, practically holding onto him for dear life as he smirks down at you.

“Right there, huh?” He sneers, starting to pound into your harder, slamming against your sweet spot over and over as you squirm and sob, gasping for air as you feel his hand tighten around your throat.

He pulls away to look at you more directly, smirking down at you as his lust filled eyes stare down at you. “You’re so pretty like this…” He sighs, his hand sliding from your throat to squeeze your breast, groping it roughly as he continues to pound into you, cockhead slamming against your cervix as you sputter and gasp beneath him.

You feel the knot in your lower abdomen start to tighten and twist, signaling you to your impending orgasm.

You look up at him with teary eyes and a blissed out expression, your hands moving to clutch at the bedsheets as you sob and whimper. The feeling of him slamming against your cervix while his hand squeezes your breast before his thumb rolls over your nipple, making your eyes flutter shut and your walls squeeze him tighter.

He drags his hand down from your breast to your waist, squeezing the plush skin as he uses it as leverage to thrust into you even harder, loud, wet smacking sounds filling your ears as you moan louder, pushing your head back into the mattress, arching your lower back as you feel the cord in your abdomen about to snap.

Aventurine suddenly slows down his movements, smirking down at you as he watches your face shift to a needy pout, eyes squeezing shut as you sob from the burning feeling of your orgasm being halted so abruptly.

“Not yet, pretty girl…” He murmurs, sitting up to pull off his shirt, revealing his fit torso, albeit a bit skinny he has the build of a swimmer, which you find attractive. He tosses the shirt next to his jacket before returning his attention to you.

He hums as he slides his gloved hands down to your thighs, squeezing them before moving to cup under your knees, pushing them up so their level with your shoulders.

Aventurine slowly starts to build up the pace again, leaning it to press his forehead to yours, letting your ankles dangle over his shoulders.

This position feels like he’s somehow even deeper inside you. His fat tip grazing your g-spot with each thrust. You moan and gasp louder, head feeling light and hazy as he pounds into you, wet slaps emanating throughout the room with each thrust.

He leans in to capture your lips in a bruising kiss, his tongue running over your lips before his tongue sweeps into your mouth, sliding with yours as he groans against your lips…

His hands move to nudge your legs off his shoulders , letting them wrap around his hips once again. “You…feel…amazing…” He mumbles between kisses, his eyes fluttering shut as his hands slide under you, up your back and to your shoulders, his hands gently grabbing them as he pulls you close against his chest.

You moan into his mouth, his lips on yours as he swallows your sounds. You move one of your arms to wrap around his neck, holding him close while the other one slides under his arm to his upper back, hands slightly scratching at the skin there.

He continues to slam into you with reckless abandon, ditching whatever self control he may have had to fuck you how he-so desperately-is doing.

He groans as his hips pound against yours, wet slaps and lewd moans coming from the both of your lips as you both feel your orgasms building.

You let out pretty sobs against his lips, nails digging into his upper back, leaving crescent marks and scratches on the fair skin as your hips buck along with his hard thrusts, desperately chasing your orgasm.

Aventurine isn’t faring any better, whining and groaning into your mouth as he slams into you harder and faster, feeling your walls pulse around his twitching cock, basically signaling him of your nearing orgasm.

He breaks the kiss, burying his face into your neck as he moans softly, one of his hands sliding up to grasp the back of your neck while the other squeezes your shoulder tighter.

“m’...close...” You sob, clutching onto him as tightly as possible as you feel your eyes water from pleasure, head hazy and body fuzzy.

“Yeah? Me too, sweetheart…” He rasps, his hand slipping from your under shoulder to slide between your sweat slicken bodies, gloved hand finding your clit, his thumb rubbing harsh, little circles against it. “Go ahead, cum on my cock, gorgeous...”

His pace speeds up even further, slamming against your sweet spot over and over as he works to push you over the edge, his lips pressing against your neck.

You let out a loud, whiny sob as you feel the cord in your stomach snap, orgasm washing over you.

Your head feels lightheaded as pleasure clouds your senses, hips bucking and walls spasming around his cock while your juices spill out of you, covering his shaft and your inner thighs. Your body twitching against his as pitiful whines and gasps fall from your lips.

He falls over the edge immediately after you, his cock twitching inside you before he abruptly pulls out, spilling his seed all over your lower stomach as he groans against your neck, his hand squeezing the back of your neck as his hips buck against you, rutting his twitching cock against your lower stomach.

You hold onto him tightly as you both come down from your orgasms, staying in each-others arms. Panting and shuddering breaths are the only things you can hear.

After a few minutes, Aventurine sits up, gazing down at you as he looks at the mess you’ve both made, a small grin appearing on his pretty face. “Guess we’re both messy, huh..?” He murmurs, sliding his hands down your side to your hips.

You don’t respond to him directly, mumbling some random insult as you lift your arms to cover your face.

He can’t help but stare, looking down at your flushed cheeks and hazy eyes, chest rising and falling with each shaky breath, looking completely fucked out.

He hums softly, pulling away from you. “Where you going...?” You mumble, watching him stand up and start to pull his pants up from the corner of your eyes.

“To grab something…” He replied, glancing at you from over his shoulder as he buckles belt before walking to your bathroom.

You sit in a bit of a daze, staring up at the ceiling, wondering how things are gonna play out now the IPC now that you’ve fucked one their higher ups. What excuse is Aventurine gonna make for your debt? Is he even going to actually get rid of it for you?

God, you’re an idiot.

You’re about to smack yourself in the forehead when Aventurine comes back into the room with a wet towel.

“Erm….what’s...that for?” You ask tiredly, rubbing the back of your neck with your palm as you glance away from him.

“You’re stomach, sweetheart.” He hums, nodding down at your stomach, covered with his seed.

“Oh...nice…” You mumble, watching as he sits across from you on the bed, leaning in as he starts to wipe the sticky mess from your stomach.

It’s quiet between the two of you, it’s awkward but not unbearable. “Thank you..” You say softly, as he finishes wiping the seed from off of you.

He smiles slightly. “I made the mess..why wouldn’t I clean it up?” He hums, tossing the towel somewhere onto the floor.

You shrug in response before yawning, covering your mouth with your hand. Aventurine looks at you, a small smirk on his lips. “You’re quite pretty, y’know...” He tilts his head slightly as he looks at you, eyebrows raised slightly as he looks at you.

Your cheeks flush slightly as you look away, a bit embarrassed. “Mhm…thank you...” you mumble, scooting closer to him you place your hand over his, thumb rubbing over his gloved knuckles. “Are you staying…?”

Your question catches him off guard, a surprised look spreading on your face for a second before a grin spreads on his face. “I’ll stay if you want me to, pretty...” He hums, his hands moving to gently grab your waist, pulling you closer. “I want you to...”

“Okay gorgeous..I’ll stay..”

You don’t know when you fell asleep but you did. His arms wrapped around you while you cuddled up against him.

You didn’t expect him to stay, it was only a one night stand but you didn’t expect…this.

When you woke up you found everything in your hotel room tidy and neat, like he cleaned everything up for you before leaving.

You yawned and rubbed your eyes as you slid out of bed, walking to where your things were arranged neatly.

You bent down, starting to look for the briefcase that held your money.

You started to grow frantic when you couldn’t find it, not in any drawers, on any counters or with any of your things.

You stomped around, tearing the room apart until you crouched down to look under the bed, where it was shoved far under to where you can barely reach.

You groan as you drag it out from under the bed, standing it and placing it onto the bed as you flick the clasps and open the briefcase.

Your stomach drops.

Your fucking heart drops.

Your eyes widen and your jaw clenches, all the money that was in there gone, down to the penny.

You feel your face grow hot as you look at what’s been left in the box, a single, small note. Picking up the small paper you grow more angered, face scrunching to a scowl as you read the note’s contents.

Thank you for the night, as promised your debt is erased and the IPC will no longer have you listed as a fugitive but I took your money as a consequence for not initially paying your debt.

Actions have consequences, sweetheart. Be more smart next time.

-- Aventurine..

Fucking bastard. You might just kill him if you see his face again.

ty for reading sweethearts!! and thank you to my lovely friend who gave me suggestions and proofread this big'ol thing :p

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