canât stop thinking about soap being the kind of boyfriend that takes you on arcade or carnival dates. he definitely takes all of the games WAY too seriously. absolutely smokes everyone at skeeball. probably does those stupid punching bag/hammer strength tests just to show off in front of you. he doesnât even let you win heâs that competitive. but itâs kinda funny and endearing. he wins a TON of tickets and then gets you the biggest fucking stuffed animal they have even as you protest and tell him that you have no place to put it.
his little mohawk popping around the head of the giant puppy stuffed animal he won you boyish smile plastered on his face while he ignores your protests. youâre stuck with the thing forever now.
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rugby player soap fucks you after a win. thatâs it. extension from this post of mine
cw for dubcon smut, noncon exhibitionism, and gross johnny + simon
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âDid ya see that, hen?â
Johnnyâs words come out stifled behind his mouthguard. He smiles, and itâs bulky, a little dim-witted in how he darts his tongue out, licking up a wash of blood that sluices down his lip. His eyebrow is split and his nose is bent out of shape, his cheeks all swollen and ruddy.Â
He pulls you into a crushing hug, shaking like an ebullient dog thatâs unaware of how big it is. His jersey, a royal blue, turns cobalt with his sweat. It sticks to his skin and outlines his chest, peeling off of your shirt when you sheepishly pull away.Â
The pitch is glutted with celebrating teammates and their loved ones, but the broadcast camera is raptly focused on you and Johnny. On the grudging hold he has on your waist and the unwieldy trophy heâs just won for his team.Â
Johnny grins like itâs a challenge. Like he wants to make the camera turn away. He forestalls the protests on your tongue by sinking into you for a hard kiss, bruising, and almost brutal in its force. Itâs like he hasnât separated himself from the game yet. Like he doesnât want to compartmentalise you from the barbarous sport he plays.Â
The scruff of Johnnyâs stubble tickles you as you try pushing him back, try twisting out of his hands. But his fingers, as bandaged and torn as they are, press dimples into your jawbone and keep you in place. Keeps you squirming and shameful beneath the dissonance of celebration.Â
He peels away with a kitten lick, pressing a wet smooch to the corner of your mouth. Heâs smiling, pulling your jeans against the bulge beneath his spandex-like shorts, chuckling.
âScored that last try for you, hen,â he pants. Spits out his mouthguard and passes his tongue over his bloodied teeth. âDidâja see it?â
Johnny stinks of iron musk and sweat. He hands the trophy away and uses both hands to pull you close, clemently kissing your jaw.Â
âI did,â you hum. You consciously lilt your voice upwards, telling it to Johnny how he always needs to hear it. âYou did so well, Johnny. So good.âÂ
He whimpers into your neck. Just barely gyroscopes his hips against you.Â
âDid it for you,â he slurs. Johnnyâs words are all soft, melting on his tongue as if heâs drunk. As if his brain is belated and stuck in the grip of your praise. âDid so good, right? Aâpracticed so hard.â
You take the bait that Johnny has given you, petting him, because if not, heâll get ratty and make a scene. You pull back and cup his face, preening under the cornflower blue of his eyes and the puppy-like dip of his lips. You smile. âSo good. Iâm so proud of you.â
Johnny is half-lidded and dizzy, nodding to himself, swallowing your praise like an empty-headed dog. Impatience and lust are written into himâyou can tell by the darkened shade of his eyes and how hard he clutches your hand.Â
âLetâs go,â he says, leading you through the stadium entrance, shouldering past fans asking him for autographs and photos. âWeâve time before the team goes for dinner. Nobodyâll be in the change room.â
Your cheeks flare with the implication of Johnnyâs words and how purposeful they are. Marked by firm determination, leaving no room for objection.Â
He tugs you like a puppy pulling its owner. Excited, working against its leash, your feet struggling to catch up. Johnny pulls you into his team's changing room, slamming the door shut behind you. The sound of you getting pressed against the lockers is thin, tinny, and fleetingly impairs you. When you reorient, Johnny has his skinned knee between your legs and against your pussy. His hand palming his cock through the tight material of his rugby shorts.
âJohnny,â you pant, âwhat if someone comes in?â
âLet âem,â he huffs out a laugh. âWhatâre they gonna do? Ban me from the league? I just won us a trophy. âm on top of the fuckinâ world, baby.â
Annoyance cycles in your stomach at his lack of consideration. You try wiggling out and mewling, but the thigh between your legs is an immovable object. Your clothed clit catches on his sinews at every angle, pushing a gasp out of you regardless of how you twist and turn.Â
âHaud yâr wheesht,â he barks. A hint of aggression bleeds into Johnnyâs words, and that makes you pliant. âWeâre just celebratinâ, hen, no need ta ruin my win.â
Your eyes are on the door while Johnny shucks down his shorts. It rolls down his thighs and he leaves it at his knees, too eager to toe off his cleats and pull it all the way off. He stands awkwardly now, a little stilted because he canât stretch his legs all the way, but that doesnât stop him from bevelling his thigh into you and flexing, grinding into you.Â
Johnny peels your shirtâa replica of his jerseyâoff of you, and kisses you deeply. You can taste the salt and blood crusted against his lips, feel his small smile.Â
Johnny spins you around and folds you over the bench. Your knees bruise against the rubber flooring and your chest flattens against the cold wood, your brain reeling in the gross implications of it, whatever Johnny and his friends get up to in this locker room.Â
He rips down your jeans, almost popping the buttons off, almost burns your skin with the denim, and settles himself behind you. Johnny grabs a fistful of your ass and spreads you open, swatting your pussy with his other hand.
âJohnnyâŚâ you mewl, and he chuckles. Gives you a waggle, slipping his large hand over and thumbing your clit.
âThought you were feart of beinâ found?â He asks, lowering to his knees and kissing your dewy folds. âWhyâre yâbeing so loud?â
Johnny waits for a second, giving you time to think of a reply, but with the first sound to leave your mouth heâs licking a fat stripe up your pussy, collapsing your words.Â
He laughs at himself and it sends vibrations up your spine. Your bones are grinding together, your nerves filaments of live wire under Johnnyâs hands that dig divots into your thighs and his mouth that sucks on your clit, tonguing your sticky folds.Â
He spits on your cunt, spreads the wad of saliva around with his tongue. He pulls you into his mouth and suckles, moving his wet lips against your dewy ones.Â
You stretch your arm back and tug on Johnnyâs fleecy mohawk, scratching your fingers against the dew-skinned, shaved parts of his head. He expels a groan against your clit and you mewl, pushing into him, wiggling so his nose buries further, his tongue plunging into you and licking a stroke up your walls.Â
Youâre quivering now, shaking against the cold bench and Johnnyâs hot mouth. A knot of energy crackles in your stomach as he wraps his lips around your clit and slurps.
âGonna come on my mouth, hen?â Johnny pants, but pulls away before you reply. Punches a whine out of you by spinning you onto your back against the bench, pulling his cock out and giving it a few tugs, his dick so hard it droops with laden weight and a slaver of precum. Â
âOr wouldâya rather do it on here?â He asks, stroking himself. His balls low-hanging in front of you, the fat head of his cock all ruddy and red and flaring as he pinches it.Â
You stare, dull-headed, with your mouth hanging open and a hazy film behind your eyes. Johnny giggles.Â
âCannae think with this in front of ye?â He smears his cockhead on your lips. âSweet girl. So cute.âÂ
Johnny winces and pulls away. He swings one leg over the bench, settling himself on top of you. His cock is a heavy mass of muscle between him. Swinging, bobbing in place. Dumb and drooling with precum that drops onto your navel.Â
He slips himself between your puffy folds, panting like a dog. Equally as impatient as one, squeezing his cockhead past your first ring of muscle, writing off your small cries of pain. He thinks cupping your cheek offsets the burnâstill, Johnnyâs cock is so heavy and so big inside you. Spreading you open, stretching you out. Making a home inside your belly.Â
You hic his name, and he shushes you with a kiss. Johnny weaves into short, quick thrusts, because pulling himself to the tip means losing most of your warmth, and he canât have that. He settles on barely rolling his hips, focusing on burying himself deep, folding himself into a frog position if that means fucking you meaner.
âTakinâ so much cock, bonnie,â he moans into your neck. âSo good. So good.âÂ
Johnnyâs ears turn pink and his eyes turn glassy. He keeps rocking inside you, his cock filling you out so well, so full, your thighs shaking and damp with slick. He fingers your clit, and in his pace, wild and unfettered, you wrap your legs around his waist like a cobbled together leash that you use to pull him closer.
Johnny grows feral at that. He slaps his balls harder against you, biting your shoulder. Sweat and blood rolls down his cheek and onto your face, augmenting the icy gold of his first place medal. It drags along your chest with each of his thrusts, turning into a ball of liquid fire as your body saturates with sweat. Johnny leans down, his lips slick as he kisses you, the push and pull of his hips ripening into a more jagged, desperate rhythm.
âGonna fill yâup, hen,â he pants. Thereâs a strong dissonance that impairs you, echoing within the locker room. Johnnyâs degenerate moans and the slap of skin against skin. The pitched sound of the wind being knocked out of you, the sticky sound of your cunt getting spread open on his big cock.Â
Something else poises itself on Johnnyâs tongue, something impure, but it gets shaved-off as he cuts himself off with a long, flinty moan. Johnny quivers as he comes, and that pushes him deeper as he fills you with his warm ropes.
He presses down on your clit, pushing the rise of your orgasm out of you. Your spine curls off the bench, your nails digging divots into Johnnyâs arms, your mouth hanging open and a rough wave of pleasure curling over you and breaking into your skin. Your orgasm is so consuming it burns, eating you whole. Â
It chews you up and spits you out. You tremble around Johnnyâs softening cock as he peppers kisses down your sternum, and while you reorient, you see an unearthly spot of colour in the corner of your eye. It isnât composed of matterâitâs big and blurry and hides between two rows of lockers.Â
Then, you realise the drapery England flag, the absence of a Scottish one.Â
The man who stands in the corner is blonde and huge and has his fat cock out, curling his fist around it, pumping. Heâs so quiet, an ambush predator as he just stands there, continuing to beat his dick even after you make eye contact with him.Â
He turns to Johnny, grotesquely smiling.
Johnny returns it.
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bury me beneath the basswood tree
pairing: ghost/soap/reader [12k]
rating: 18+ only. minors donât interact.
tags: non-con sex, kidnapping, stockholm syndrome, size kink, forced fellatio, forced cunnilingus, impact play, brief watersports, double penetration in two holes, forced breeding, implied hybrid/shifter au
Needing time away from her humdrum life at home, she ventures into the woodland for respite. Little does she know, straying into that cabin in the woods will be the worstâor bestâdecision sheâll ever make. Depending on who you ask.
all my thanks to @/ohbo-ohno! thank you for being the best beta reader and sitting through my abhorrent typos <3
AO3 MIRROR
The mountainâs breadth of trees and foliage are written with prose.Â
Itâs repetitive. Mind-numbing. Sheâs already passed this necrosed tree stump five times before. On the sixth circle, she treks through the undergrowth like itâs curdled milk, the tiny scythes of branches whispering against her arms and slicing her open the same way thumbs tear into oranges.Â
Dehydration crystallises like sediment in her mouth. It makes her bones heavy, bending against her flesh as if theyâre groceries about to tear through a plastic bag. The balls of her feet are calcified, her thighs chafed. They rub against her threadbare jeans the same way a match reacts with red phosphorus to produce a flame. It burns, and so do her muscles. They feel moth-eaten and spent. Hung out to dry.Â
The stench of damp soil and sugar maple impairs her like an opiate. The peal of idle birdsongs grate against her ears. Sheâs sick of itâsheâs been here for three daysâand already, sheâs sick of it.Â
She tries her phone again. Itâs unresponsive, no signal. She unfurls her map but itâs mottled with rainwater and mud. Her lungs feel dry, pruney, as the dew drops slipping off fern plants seem to replicate the tears thawing in her eyes.Â
Evening mist hangs over the ground, and the sky turns red-bottomed as it progresses into nightfall. Itâs as if the mountain is sentient. Nocturnal. Stirring from a torpor once the sun sets and awakening all that lives within it.Â
A sob wracks her ribs. It has the same effect of a bullet, ricocheting. She keeps moving even though she doesnât know where sheâs going. She believes that should she continue walking, nothing will be able to catch her. Not the spindly tree branches that take the shape of arms or serpentine shrubbery. She wonât give the mountain any time to fossilise her, if only she keeps moving. Â
Her movements are clumsy though. Her eyesight is hindered by panicked tears, turning everything shapeless and blurry. She keeps tripping and skinning her knees like the hide of a pomegranate, her flesh peeling back to show the red pulp of her innards.Â
It was a rashly undertaken lapse of judgement that brought her here. To a conscious mountain that lives and breathes and feels her fear. It was her heart, empty, carved out and replaced by brutal loneliness. Her friends back home are heedless and her parents are never satisfied with what she does. She figured that if none of them would listen, the woodlands would.Â
And listen, they did.
When she cries out, the wind howls. When she changes her direction, pivoting on her heel, the soil rumbles. She sees thingsâa shadow spotting her vision, not composed of matterâpeeking from behind a tree trunk before quickly slipping away. She witlessly calls out, asking if anyoneâs there, and is met with the forest's silent presentiment. She feels the stark pressure of piercing eyes sprawling down her dewy neck, sweeping over her body.Â
The longer she spends lost, the more she sinks into Appalachia.
It pulls her down like molasses. Like sheâs an innocent fly trapped in glue. Soon, she knows thereâs no hope. She knows her scent is written into the bark of treesâsupple, sugary. A treat for whichever predator finds her first.Â
A brown bear, swinging its claws at her until her entrails are threadbare and striated. A snake, injecting venom in her blood. A bobcat if sheâs lucky. It would be a quick deathâsinking its loose jowls into either side of her neck until it snaps and she goes slack.Â
Sheâs apt to let go. Sheâs keen to yield to the alluring call of the woodland to let go, to fall to the forest floor and sit there until she rots. Until the roots worm into her breathing wounds and branches start growing out of her mouth. The urge to stop moving and become one with the mountain is suddenly cogent, leaves no margin of doubt. It comes with the promise of eternal respite and divine mercy. Sheâs about to find a cliff to jump off of, but before she can, something catches her attention.Â
A plume of smoke curling in the air.Â
Whorls of slate-grey soot thinning and disappearing into the sky. She looks for the source and follows it blindly, shouldering past pine needles and hawthorn and all but sobbing as a cabin comes into view. Itâs made of wood and the tufts of wildflower that sprout from its thin fissures. It looks neglected and eaten by the elements. Its vaulted roof is stained by the off-white assault of bird droppings, discoloured by acid rain. Some of the windows look covered with dewy newspaper, but still, she knows it canât be vacant. The smoke undulating from the chimney tells her that.
She staggers onto the porch. Her fist rasps against the door, clippings of wood burying itself into her skinned knuckles as she wildly knocks. Silence. Not even the leaves flutter against each other. Fleetingly, a stint of panic seizes her. What if nobodyâs home? But sheâs twisting the knob and pushing herself inside anyway, dropping her bag to the floor with a thump, stepping inside.
The cabin makes for a liminal space, smelling of sawdust and pine. Thereâs a layer of dust on every surface, making the air thick. All the furniture is carved from wood and a couple taxidermied deers are mantled above the stone fireplace, looking more like warnings than decoration. The pelt of a black bear is unfurled across the floor, and a few trinkets are strewn aroundâa bookshelf of spine-cracked novels, dead plants hanging from the ceiling beams. A mountain of used cigarettes, but strangely, no ashtray.Â
Thereâs everything but picture frames. Nothing she can use to humanise the cabin nor the people supposedly living in it.
She guides herself to the kitchen by feeling the walls. Thereâs a piped stove in the corner and cast iron tools hanging above the counter. Her stomach bubbles, and immediately, she starts scouring for food.Â
Thereâs three barrels by the door, and upon popping them open, the stench of brine sprays her in the face. Itâs fish with a crust of salt, preserved. In the other barrel is meat buried in shelled corn, and fermented poultry in the last barrel.Â
Itâs all raw and bloody. She steps back, gagging, turning her attention to the shelves that line the faraway wall. Jars of pickled cucumber and carrots. Garlic braids hanging from the edge. Rusty milk churns nestled in the corner.Â
Thereâs a galvanised tub full of ice on the floor. She digs through it and almost moans at the jars of jam. She untwists one, sticks her fingers in it, and wipes it clean with her tongue and teeth. Itâs tart and tangy but itâs food, sticking to the walls of her stomach, satiating her. And once she starts she canât stop. She goes back to the wall and finds a stained jar, fishing out a handful of fermented cabbage, stuffing it in her mouth, her face tightly puckering at the sharp sourness.
The juice of the food goes spilling past her lips, sluicing down her chest. It sticks to the chasm between her tits and mixes with sweat, making her shirt cling to her skin, revealing the barest outline of her nipples. Sheâs so engrossed in keeling over the counter and stuffing her face that she doesnât even notice the pointed shift in atmosphere. The deer outside stopping their rutting, the trill of birds ceasing. The leaves stilling, as if holding their breaths to hide. Thick, silvery clouds nestling together and eclipsing the sun, casting a thin overcast over the woodland, darkening the already-dim surroundings.Â
Sheâs too preoccupied to recognise the tell-tale croak of the door swinging open. Itâs tinny, but bullied by the sound of her smacking on marinated cabbage. She doesnât notice the dull, throbbing footfalls. Pays no heed to the stench of blood invading her senses because she believes itâs coming from her dry, leathery lips that split open as she widens her mouth to fit the cabbage inside.
Itâs only when the room darkens, a box-shaped shadow sweeping over her vision, does her blood run cold. She freezes with a handful of vegetable raised halfway to her lips, the brine rolling off a cabbage leaf like itâs an awning, dropping to the floorâdrip, drip, dripâthe rapid succession of shedding liquid hitting the floor sounds similar to the beating of her heart against her fickle, feeble ribs.Â
The saline spray in her mouth gets soaked up by her tongue, making it puffy, too big for her mouth. She turns around clementlyâtreating the shadow like a wild animalâno sudden movements. She goes rigid.Â
It canât be human.Â
Itâs huge. Bigger than anything sheâs ever seen before. Sweeping shoulders, broad thighs. Its neck is bent uncannily because itâs too big to fit in the doorway. Its chest rises heavily like a bull.
She tries to find a face, and when she does, the blood is drained from her.
It just makes her feel⌠uncomfortable. Its face is the poor imitation of a human, as if someone tried drawing one from memory but scarcely failed. Failed to capture the humanity, the animation, leaving it looking like a half-convincing resemblance. Its tapetum lucidum glows yellow, burning in the thin mist of moonlight that penetrates the newspaper sticking to the windows.Â
It stares blankly at her. The hair on her arms stick up, a bead of sweat slices down her neck.Â
âIâm sorryâŚâ
The creature raises an arm and pulls on a hanging bead-chain, tugging on the light, which is simply a naked bulb in the middle of the kitchen. The kindle is weak but does more than the delicate moonlight. Just barely illuminates its face. His face.
She tries not to let her fear show. Tries not to preen under his depthless eyes, the mean twine of his lips. His hair that seems to have been shaved too closely to his scalp, if the nicks and small cuts on the shells of his ears are anything to go by.Â
He grumbles an idle prusten. He rolls his elbows backâhis shoulder blades unfurling like folded wingsâand twists his thick neck.
âWhatâre you doinâ in my home?â
âIâm so sorry,â she repeats, her words stifled around a wad of cabbage. âIâ Iâve been lost for three days. I came up for a hike but lost my way and I saw your cabin and Iâm sorry, but Iâm just so hungry andââ
A deep, guttural voice peals from the living room.Â
âSimon!â It says. âWhere should I chuck the deer? Itâs too big for the livinâ room.â
The aforementioned Simon, she presumes, doesnât answer the unobserved voice. He keeps his eyes on her, face twisted into a puckered, mean mug.
A string of footsteps precede the face that appears behind Simonâs shoulder. A rounder, ruddier face. A salt-and-pepper stubble and eyes so blue they glow like bioluminescence.Â
Johnny acts surprised as if Simon hadnât smelled her from miles away. Her honeyed scent roiling off of her, curling into the air and thinning between the trees. Her sweat pooling in the gusset of her panties, raw and pungent.Â
Heâs purposely coy. Itâs written into the furrow of his brows and the caper of his cupid lips but the girl is too disoriented to catch on. She looks at him and beseeches, but almost faints at the deer hanging limply over his shoulder. He holds it like it weighs nothingâa sack of sprouting potatoes.
He coos. âWhoâs this?â
âLost bird,â Simon grunts. âFound her digginâ through our food.â
âOh, poor lassie,â Johnny hums. More so to Simon than the girl, which makes her squirm. âShe didnae mean any harm, Simon. Sheâs just hungry⌠thaâ right, lass? Are ye hurt?â
She stutters out a nod, gesturing to how her jeans cling to her knees, sun-bleached and darkened with blood. She rolls her shirt over her ribcage, showing them her wounded torso. How her skin sticks to her bones.
Johnny bristles.Â
âThe lass needs a place to stay, Simon,â he whispers. âAnd sheâs hurt. Bleeding.â
They talk of her as if sheâs advertised merchandise in a magazine catalogue. She squirms.
Simon turns to look at her. The depression in her cheeks due to her hunger and the split skin of her mouth. The pert curve of her breasts. The desperate look in her eyes.Â
He grumbles, looks over his shoulder at Johnny. âIâll start the fire. You take the deer out back and drain it âfore it hardens.â
âAye,â Johnny says. He thumps away in clunky boots and a thin t-shirt and jeans. The deer sways with his gait and disappears behind the screen door when he steps outside.Â
She redirects her attention to Simon, whoâs already looking at her. More specifically, at her pulsing neck. His jowls are slightly unfastened, his pupils blown out and eclipsing his irises.Â
Presentiment settles in her stomach. She blanches.Â
Suddenly, Simon is grunting and gripping her arm, heedless towards her whimper of fear and fleeting stint of resistance. His nails are sharp, digging sickle-shaped impressions into her arm. He drags her down the hallway and into another roomâa bathroomâand tugs the flickering light on. It lacks sheen, barely illuminates the room from its moss-covered nooks to the tiled floor caked with crusted dirt.Â
(The lightbulb is so dull. It doesnât reach the farthest corner of the bathroom where the radiator is placed. The radiator bathed in black, hidden beneath the lip of shadows, so she isnât able to see the forgotten handcuff hanging limply from one of the pipes.)
Simon works his heavy body around the bathroom. He leans over the clawfoot tubâwhich he dwarfsâand twists open the spigot, watching as brown-coloured water slowly ripens into something clear, gushing out of the faucet. He stuffs a plastic plug into the rust-ringed drain.Â
He straightens back into his full height. All-encompassing, panoramic. Simon is so impossibly large that itâs a wonder he has so much muscle packed under his skin. Rustic, hard thighs. A shirt that bends against his arms, about to snap.Â
âTake a bath,â he commands. âGet yârself cleaned up.â
Simon shoulders past her and ducks to exit the bathroom. Thereâs no door separating it from the rest of the house, but a multitude of beads hanging above the threshold to imitate one. She keeps her eyes trailed on it while she stripsâpeeling off her jeans, pulling her shirt over her head. Rolling down her panties and consciously hiding them beneath her other clothes.Â
She clutches the lip of the bathtub for leverage and dips her toes into the water. Immediately, she melts. The hot water swallows her foot and travels like a spool of thread to the rest of her, weaving itself into her wounds, licking her open like the first thaw of spring.Â
She submerges herself fully, bringing her knees to her chest. Her neck hoists backward and into the water, soaking all the grit and dirt knotted into her hair. Itâs like plying through syrup as she lifts an arm, retrieving a homespun bar of soap, clutching it to test her grip. Thereâs coily hair knotted into it and sticking to the dried bubbles. She brings it up to her nose, sniffing. Hesitates before rubbing it into her skin and around her throbbing wounds.Â
The water idly sloshes as she cleans herself. Itâs a hollow sound, amplified by the echoey room. She trails her hand below her waist, slipping her sudsy fingers between her lips and stroking, rubbing herself clean.Â
Beneath the tinny sounds of water surrounding her like a petticoat, something else peals out. Something like a whine. Her fingers cramp above her warm cunt and she goes taut. She turns her head to the threshold of the bathroom and nearly screams but her throat puckers before she can, blocking it, her mouth hanging open in a soundless screech instead.
Itâs Johnny. He stands in the middle of the hallway, peering into the bathroom and staring at her, half-obscured by the bead curtains. He looks like a sit-and-wait predator like thisâsilent and unassuming, if not for his blindingly-white smile shining through the curtain like strobes of sunlight breaking past trees. He steps inside now that heâs been spotted, and that causes ice to lick her organsâshe sinks her breasts below the waterâs surface, squeezing her thighs together. She bristles as Johnny strides impossibly close, the lip of the tub cutting into his thighs.
He stinks of sweat and iron and wood. His t-shirt clings to his skin, darkened with deer blood, outlining the barest hint of his bulky chest.
He grins. âBrought ye some clean clothes.âÂ
âOh. I⌠thank you,â she mumbles. âYou can leave it on the toilet if you donât mind?â
Johnny sets it down. A folded flannel and a pair of sweatpants. He idles a little longer, still smiling, before leaving the bathroom. She counts the minutes in her head and tries to find the right time to leave the tub, outstretching her hand for the towel once it comes to her. But the towel is just scarcely out of reach. The terrycloth grazes her fingertips, teasing her. Itâs like it was methodically placed there. Bait at the end of a fish hook to ply her out of the water and stick her ass in the air, reaching over to grip the cloth and tug it over her breasts, stepping out of the tub.
Her eyes stay locked on the crude door while she changes. She buttons the flannel up to her neck and takes heed of the pointed absence of any undergarments, slipping her legs into the gauzy sweatpants, tying them at her waist.
Johnny bursts in as if on cue. Heâs still slick with blood, his mohawk odd-angled, spun-thread and matted to his head with sweat. His cheeks bulge around another grin.
âToo big for ye, is it?â He pants. âMight as well take it off. Might trip and hurt yerself again. Wouldnât want that happeninâ, right honey?â
Johnny shortens the space between them in one stride. His fingers, thick and jaded, are already fumbling around the knot she tied, pulling it out of its bow and letting the sweatpants fall, pooling into a crimp around her ankles.Â
The flannel is big enough to reach her thighs. Still, she clenches her fingers around the hem and tugs it lower, preening under Johnnyâs smouldering gaze. Itâs almost paradoxical how it worksâhis eyes are icy blue, yet they have the same effect as basaltic molten. Burning hot. Heâs fixated on her skinned knees, gnawing on his bottom lip.
âSimonâs got the fire goinâ,â he says. âLetâs go get yer wounds cleaned too, aye?â
Johnnyâs walking out before she can blink. She follows after him, flustered, stumbling into the living room lit by a dulcet fire. Simonâs kneeled beside it, sticking his hand in to adjust a lopsided stock of wood, unaffected by the flames that eat away his arm hair. Johnny takes the girl by the scruff of her neck, guiding her to a hand-crafted chair placed conscientiously in front of the fireplace. He presses on herâthe sensitive divot between her shoulder and her neckâand pushes her into the seat, unzipping a first-aid kit.Â
Johnny takes her feet and pulls them into his lap. The angle makes her flannel hitch up, exposing her bare cunt to the hot embers of the fireplace, and the equally hot embers of Simonâs prying eyes. She squeaks and covers herself, averting her gaze as Simonâs stare darkens into the colour of midnight splash hanging over the sky.
âYouâll feel a wee sting,â Johnny warns. He rips the corner off a rag and drenches it in vodka, poising it over her flayed knees. âShould probably give my hand a squeeze or somethinâ, ye ken? To lessen the burn, oâ course.â
She hesitates but slips her hand around Johnnyâs all-encompassing one, her fingers barely meeting whilst wrapped around his palm. She winces when the ethanol meets her wound, shooting through her veins, and tries recoiling into herself.Â
But the amplitude of her pain swells, and her muscles girdle.Â
Itâs Simonâs massive hand splitting itself across her thigh that keeps her pinned to the chair. His fingers bite rivets into her skin, the pinch overriding the sting of her tissue soaking up the alcohol.
âStay still when he tells you to,â he grumbles. âOtherwise itâll hurt.â
She wriggles uncomfortably. Tries not to flinch when the rag meets her knees again and burns her wound. Simonâs hand doesnât leave her thigh until heâs throwing another block of wood into the fireplace.
Johnny hums. âSo, whatâre you doinâ up here? Religious retreat? Mental health?â
She smacks her lips, unsure if she should answer that. She chances a glance towards Simon and bristles because for some reason, she just knows that if she lies, somehow, heâd tell.
âUm. Just stepping away from home, I suppose,â she mumbles. âFriends. Family.â
âOh. They dinnae care about you?â
She flinches. Not because of the vodka against her skin, but Johnnyâs implications.Â
âNo,â she says. Her words are so fickle, so distorted by misery that not even she believes it. âThey do care about me. I just needed space.â
He nods. Slowly, his eyebrows press together. âI donât remember much of my family. Itâs a wee bit odd. Canât say if they liked me or notâŚâ
Simon squeezes the back of his neck. âEnough of thaâ. Pay attention.â
Johnny makes a sound like heâs humiliated. Itâs only when he unrolls a spool of gauze, wrapping it around her kneecaps, is he afforded mercy when Simon changes the topic.
âWhereâs the bird gonna sleep?â
âWeâve still got a cot in the root cellar, aye?â Johnny replies. âFor hurricanes and thaâ. Figured she wouldnât mind it there. Wouldnât ye, lass?â
Clemently, she shakes her head.
Simon grunts. He stands up, towering over them both. âThe deerâs there, Johnny. What kind of hosts would thaâ make us? Puttinâ her up with a corpse?â
Johnny blushes as if heâs been scolded. His bottom lip curls out, petulant, a waspish colour flooding his cheeks.Â
âAyeâŚâ he grumbles. âThaâs right. The livinâ room, then?â
The girl is sitting, her head oscillating between the two men like a pendulum as they talk.Â
âNo,â Simon says. âWeâll move the cot to our room.â
Johnny nods. He scratches his stubble, pretending to think. âItâs important we keep an eye on her wounds, too.â
âExactly,â Simon says, petting Johnnyâs head. âSmart boy.â
He clicks his tongue and Johnny shoots up, scurrying out of the living room to retrieve the aforementioned cot. Muffled sounds peal out from the root cellar below them. Johnny comes stumbling back up in mere minutes with a rickety cot fitted under his armpit and disappears into a dark room.
âBest get to sleep before itâs too late,â Simon splays his hand over the small of her back. âYâmust be tired.â
She submits to Simonâs touch, letting him guide her through the cabin and into the darkest room lit only by a lone oil lamp.Â
Johnny is finishing up the cot when Simon releases her. He drapes a cable-knit blanket over the surface, fluffing up a pillow. She doesnât point out how close it is to their bed, the lip of her cot almost touching their rickety mattress.
âFair warninâ lass,â Johnny begins, peeling off his shirt, kittening into bed. âSimon snores quite a bit. Dinnae be feart to smack his gob if he gets too loud, aye?â
She stiffly nods. She climbs into the cot and bunches the blanket around her, making a conscious effort to hide her bare legs. Simon crawls between them, the mattress sinking with his weight, and throws their whisper-thin blanket over his legs.Â
Darkness penetrates the room when he blows the lamp out. The only smoulder is the silvery glow of moonlight invading the curtains and the reflective light in Simonâs eyes.Â
He sits up impossibly straight, staring at her like a cryptid caught on a trail cam. It causes discomfort to congeal under her flesh, but slowly, the longer she looks, a bristle of sleepiness lays hold of her. She closes her eyes and falls into limbo. Her breaths thinning into a short, even pattern.
âââ
Sheâs between the threshold of awake and sleep when she hears it.
She canât tell if itâs a dream or the amplified sounds of Appalachia. She feels as if sheâs underwater or stuck in syrup, able to hear the rushing brook of her blood against her ears but unable to distinguish the sounds around her.
Thereâs a grunt. And a moan. The wail of the bed next to her snapping then creasing. Heavy breathing. Sprinting hearts.Â
Her head is so muddled she canât register anything. Her mind tells her that the violent slapping of skin against skin is the crack of thunder. That the strangled whimpers are the call of a cottontail.Â
âRight there, Johnny?â A voice asks. âTakinâ my big cock so fuckinâ well. Greedy lilâ bitch, you are.â
A long, drawn-out whine chases after it. A choked-out scream as if something hurts, succeeded by a wet squelch.Â
âLook at âer,â that voice jeers. âThink sheâd take it? Better than you? Think sheâd bleed all over it likeâ fuck⌠how I smelt it on her?â
The other voiceâbroken in, wispyâchokes on a response. It sounds a little stifled, as if speaking through something shoved in its mouth.
âNo⌠nae better than me,â it mumbles. âNae better than meâŚâ
Itâs like sheâs drowning in purgatory. She canât move, canât speak. Sheâs caught in a phantasmagorical limbo between reality and fantasy. She can feel the serpentine hands of something with no material existence wrap around her and stain her slick with sweat, sweeping over the space between her legs, licking a wetness up her pussy.Â
A dewy sound peals out. Itâs a predator loosening its jowls, stringy and frothy, flaying its lips to bare its teeth. A rumbling roar rips out of its throat, animalistic. She can hear the popping of teeth sinking into flesh. The dull sound of skin breaking.
âAh!â A squeal. âSimon, thaââ it hurts.â
She feels a vortex in her belly, an ache in her clit.
Itâs like she resurfaces the water. All at once, she hears clearly. Itâs a lone word whispered in a guttural cadence so close that she swears itâs mumbled against the hot hull of her ear.
âGood.â
âââ
She wakes the next morning with her tongue sticking to the roof of her mouth and a damp heat between her legs.
Sunlight filters through the gauzy curtains, hitting the bed next to her. The bed is starkly empty she notes, as she crawls out of her cot and pops the stiff muscles in her back, stretching.Â
She pokes her head out of the bedroom and tiptoes around the cabin as if avoiding a barrage of landmines. Thereâs a downward force in her bladder that tells her sheâs been in torpor for the better half of the morning, and a heavy crust in her eyes that shifts when she blinks. She finds her way to the bathroom and shucks the flannel over her hips, lowering herself on the toilet seat, emptying herself.
Itâs the only stint of respite. The closest thing she can get to calm since losing her way in the mountain three days ago. She relishes in the idle birdsongs outside and the sound of overnight frost melting into the dew that slips off tree leaves, pitter-pattering to the ground. Listens to the stream of her pee peter out, and the ruffle of folding fabric as she tosses the flannel back over her thighs. She listens to theâ
âHowâd ye sleep, pretty girl?â
She flinches at the gruff voice. Itâs written with sleep, barely lucid under a Scottish lilt. Her hands freeze under the running water of the tap as she watches Johnny waltz inside the bathroom, shucking his pants to his thighs and pulling out his cock, pissing in the toilet.Â
Sheâs stiff. Fixed to the cold clay tiles of the floor, unable to be bent. She tries not to let her eyes wander, tries to block out the chubby mass of muscle swinging between his legs.Â
âOhâŚâ her words are stifled by shock. âF-fine. I slept fine. Thank you again for opening your house to me.â She thinks back to last nightâthe whimpering, the croakingâand rashly decides to tack on, âBut I did hear some weird noises. I could have been dreaming though.â
Johnny chuckles. â...Aye, itâs almost matinâ season âround these parts. I think youâll be hearinâ more of that. Itâs best to ignore it.â
Her body girdles when he sways his cock, shaking away the liquid on the tip. He stuffs himself back into his pants and pulls the flush, grinning.Â
âBet youâre still hungry. Simonâs wrappinâ up breakfast. Letâs go.â
He pats her bum and makes her squeak. He grips the hem of her flannel and reels it around his knuckles like a leash, tugging her into the dining areaâwhich is more of a nook nestled into the living roomâand pulls out a seat.
âHope ye fancy porridge,â Johnny chuckles. He splits his palm across the top of her head, pushing her into the chair.Â
She huffs and hoists her neck up, grimacing at the acrid scent of animal hide burning against the base of a cast iron pan. It takes a conscious effort to not crinkle her nose in disgust.
Simon ducks as he emerges from the kitchen threshold. He wields two bowls of food. One for her and the other for Johnny. She takes heed of howâdespite his statureâSimon doesnât have anything to eat.
However itâs a cursory thought, because sheâs quickly pulling her lips into a weak smile and examining the bowl in front of her. Food is a generous word, since it looks more like coagulated milk than porridge and smells sour. Simon places a chipped plate of bacon alongside it. Itâs curled because itâs overcooked, crusted with charcoal.
She swallows as Simon takes a seat next to her. Johnny, on the other side of her.Â
âLooks delicious,â she hums. She turns to Simon, âAre you⌠not eating?â
He picks an off-white tendon from his canine tooth, flicking it away.Â
He answers in a rigid tenor. âDonât hurt your head over me. You eat your food.âÂ
She marginally shrinks into herself, embarrassment licking up her spine. She feels like a chided puppy, but perhaps thatâs the sentiment.Â
When she opens her lips and raises the spoon to her mouth, her flannel curls like a wisp of hair off her shoulder, baring her bruised albeit supple skin. She hastily pulls the sleeve back up.Â
She speaks around the stale porridge and her rising apprehension. âUh, do you have my clothes from yesterday?â She asks, squirming as her sweat glues the back of her thighs to the chair, sticky. âItâs just, uh, they fit me better.â
âOh,â Johnny blinks, âoâ course.âÂ
She watches him stand up and slip through the backdoor. He walks towards a clothesline hitched between two trees and retrieves her clothes, returning with them tucked under his arm.
âHere ye go sweetheart,â he grins, setting them on her lap. Petting her head.
She slowly peels through her clothes. Her fingertips drag against her threadbare jeans, her overripe shirt, but never touch the sweat-imbued gauze of something more⌠intimate. Her maw tenses around the hot porridge.Â
âWhere are my⌠umâŚâ she lowers her voice even though itâs redundantâJohnny is leaned in close, practically huffing against her ear, sniffing her neck. â... Undergarments?â
Johnny tilts his head, puckering his lips in confusion. Heâs written with the innocence of a puppyâwhether itâs real or fabricated, she canât tell. The words have begun bleeding together, blotchy and unintelligible.Â
âPanties, ye mean?â He laughs. âYe never had any of those.â
She swallows thickly.Â
âNo, I⌠I did. I wouldnât go hiking withoutââ
âYe must be goinâ crazy, lass,â Johnny says. âThis was all you gave me. Nae panties.â
He stares at her with large, intercosmic, unassuming eyes. His gaze flickers towards Simon. Itâs so fleeting that she almost misses it. The sweep of his blue irises widening, eclipsed by his pupils. She tenses. Omniscience hits her like a brick.
Her tongue goes heavy in her mouth, melting her words. The porridge turns frothy in her gut, nausea sticking to her organs and presentiment curdling in the air. She tightens her throat around a gag.
â... When can you drive me into town?â
Johnny reaches over and grips her thigh. He digs divots into her flesh like a fish hook caught in a flayed gill.
âYouâre welcome to stay as long as ye want, pretty. Thereâs nae rush.â
She feels bile crawl up her throat.
âOh, well, I just donât want to overstay my welcââ
âHeâs excited to play host,â Simon growls. His words are marked by firm determination, leaving no room for objection. He leans over the table, his wifebeater clinging to his muscle, his wiry chest hair pressing against the soft cotton. âWe rarely get visitors âround here and heâll be upset if you leave. Yâwanna make him upset?âÂ
Finally, warnings blare like strobe lights in her mind. She fidgets in her seat, sweating, shooting a cursory glance to the backdoor. Calculating her chances of survival should she break through the mesh and make a run for it.Â
âO-of course not. Not after everything youâve done for me,â she stutters, feeling a bead of sweat travel down her neck. âIâm sorry. Iâm sorry for asking.â
Simon settles back in his seat. Johnny, too, frowning around his porridge.Â
âGood,â Simon grunts meanly. âNow shut your gob anâ eat.â
She clemently chews away at her breakfast, preening under their smouldering gazes. Throughout her polishing off her bowl, sheâs reminded Simon doesnât have one. Itâs unseemly for a man so sturdy to not be eating, but as Simonâs lips peel back, sated while he watches her take her final bite, she spots a spray of red liquid washing the spire of his fang tooth, glistening in the sunlight.Â
âHowâd you like thaâ, pretty?â Johnny asks. He collapses whatever thoughtsâwhatever inklingsâbegin to seize her about Simon as he smiles and their bowls, disappearing into the kitchen.
Right away, Simon is hooking his foot behind a leg of her chair, using it to pull her closer.Â
Heâs centimetres away from her face when he says, âHow âbout you start pullinâ your weight?â
Her eyes flicker up to see Simon hovering over her. Heâs dewy with sweat, big and burly and drifting above her like the closet-dwelling monster from everyoneâs childhood.
âYouâve caused enough trouble in my home,â he continues. âAte a lot of our produce. Itâs time you make up for thaâ.â
She resists the urge to snarl. She doesnât even want to be here yet Simon is insisting she fill her roleâwhatever that role may be.Â
But as she hoists her neck up at him, she gets skittish and looks away, her tongue knotting. She knows it isnât smart to upset Simon again. Heâs a beefy man with sharp canines and vertical pupils, with more hair sprouting from his forearms than whatâs considered normal. A man who expels deep tonal flutters instead of regular breaths. Whoâdespite his sizeâcanât ever be heard approaching.
So she smiles instead, asking, âWhat is it you need help with?â
âFloors need scrubbinâ.â
He shoves a rag in her hand and holds out a bucket of sudsy water she hadnât noticed before.
âKitchen, livinâ room⌠just get to work.â
The water sloshes over the lip of the bucket when he sets it down. Simon stands to his full height and stalks out of the room, leaving her alone with her multitude of thoughts.Â
Slowly, she stands up. She hauls the water bucket to the middle of the living room and is starkly reminded of her strengthâor lack thereof. Simon had picked the bucket up so naturally, but with the weak tendons lacing her arms, she struggles. It doesnât help that her vision is still spotty.Â
She lowers to her knees, wincing at the chord of pain beneath her bandages. She awkwardly drenches the rag in the water and wrings it dry, poising herself above the floor, working the rag into the floorboards.Â
She tenses when Johnny walks back in. Heâs behind her. Unlike with Simon, she can feel him creeping up. She can feel his eyes on the lips of her pussy where her flannel hitches up while sheâs bent over, scrubbing the floors.Â
Her cheeks burn. She blindly reaches behind her to tug the hem down, covering her warm cunt.Â
Johnny chuckles. âThis is whaâ Simon has you doinâ out here?âÂ
She looks over her shoulder, her skin prickling when she sees an axe in his hand.Â
âWeâre goinâ to the yard to chop some wood,â he says, âbut I see youâre already busy beinâ our bonnie housewife.âÂ
She stutters. That operative word, housewife, burns a hole in the snail-shaped cochlea of her ear. âNo, Simon j-just asked me to. He asked me to.â
âI know, sweetie,â Johnny replies. He squats next to her and rubs her back in slow circles, trying to hike up her flannel again. âSimonâs just takinâ the piss. Heâs a meanie like thaâ.â
She tries shouldering him away but Johnny only holds her tighter. Simon reappears in the doorway, watching with his arms crossed.Â
Johnny clears his throat. âThought weâd spend time in the yard today. Doesnât thaâ sound sweet?â
She looks at Simon whoâs already looking at her through hooded, brutish eyes. She realizes that her autonomy is divestedâthat she has no choice but to follow what they say because something is very, very wrong here.Â
Perhaps this is what the mountain had warned her of. In all of its howling and breathing, the branches gripping her and the delirium written into her psyche, maybe, it was all a warning.Â
She hangs her head. âMhm⌠sounds great.â
She has no time to process whatâs happening before heâs folding his hand into the cavity of her armpit and dragging her up and out of the door, into the backyard.Â
Itâs more of a cleared grove than a yard. Dead tree stumps litter the small expanse, grass the colour of ripe lemons because itâs been seared down. Thereâs a block of wood sitting on a stump, split down the middle. Sun-bleached clothes hanging over the clothesline.
âYâcan watch here,â Johnny says, gesturing to one of the tree stumps. âWeâve got to chop wood for dinner tonight.â
He pulls her down on the makeshift seat, finally letting her go. And just as Johnny pivots, slamming the spire of the axe into the block of wood, she sees him scrunch his nose as he sniffs his hand, drinking in the sweat from her armpit. It goes up his nose and through his nasal cavity, making him quiver as if her sweat is an opiate. Disgust slams into her, sinking in her stomach and settling there like sediment. She doesnât even notice Simon walking out of the cabin and reaching for the axe, raising it over his head, until the resounding sound of wood snapping peals out, and sheâs jumping in her skin.
âNo need to be feart,â Johnny laughs. âJust his usual routine.â
She watches Simon work. He looks like a beast on its hind legs like thisâimpossibly large and splayed out with his arms over his head, growling whenever he brings the axe down on the tree stump, splitting it in two. Sweat burns through his wifebeater and turns the fabric translucent, revealing the barest outline of his chest. His chest hairs are matted with sweat, his sinews straining with each chop of wood. His face is curled meanly into itself, his trimmed hair nicked in different places from at-home shaving and washed with sweat.
Every time he brings the axe down on the wood, expelling a guttural groan, something stirs in her. He does it with such force, such strength, it makes her wary. He fractures the wood along the grain without so much of a blink, without any stifling in his muscle.
All those horror films she watches aloneâwhen her friends say theyâre too busy to join, when they lead her on after planning a get-together that doesnât come to fruitionâfinally catch up to her, sowing the thought in her head that if she stays, sheâll become the tree stump. Impotent beneath Simonâs hacking and eclipsed by his behemoth-like body.Â
Her missing panties. Johnnyâs sticky hands. Simonâs less-than-human behaviour. It all slams into her like whiplash.Â
Her fear rears its head as a rashly undertaken announcement tumbling out of her mouth.
âI have to pee.â
She ignores the way Johnny perks up, as if that activated something in his brain. His ocular vein goes large, rapt, his pupils blowing out as he looks at her and then her navel where her bladder sits, suddenly grinning.Â
âI can come withââ
âIâll go in the woods,â she says. âBehind a bush or something, okay?â
Simon grunts. Itâs a deep prusten sound as he splits another block of wood. Johnny pouts but lets her go, watching with those imploring eyes as she disappears behind some foliage.Â
Itâs now or never, she decides.Â
She makes sure sheâs concealed by the flowering of a tree before speeding up her walk. She moves like an unoiled machine, rusty, as her walk ripens into a run.
She doesnât know where sheâs running. She doesnât know how far the nearest town is or how to find the trail she lost herself on, but she knows she needs to get far away from here.Â
The woodland is labyrinthine. Everything looks the same. She hopes she isnât sprinting deeper into the heart of Appalachia and straight into her new grave, but still, she doesnât stop running. Not until her lungs wilt into themselves and turn pruney, not until her heartbeat plateaus.Â
Itâs as if sheâs working against a rip current. She feels as if a part of herself is already woven into the woodland soil, feels herself written into the rotting, wet trees. Itâs like sheâs treading water instead of sprinting. And itâs like a supernova has erupted in her ankle as it gets caught under a root, sending her face first into the dirt.Â
She reorients as quickly as she can. She raises to her feet but winces at the flaring nerves in her foot, and looks around for a stick she can use as a crutch.Â
But something else catches her attention.Â
A dog-eared paper taped to a Basswood tree. Itâs been eaten by the elements, mottled, barely hanging on. She steps closer and reads the blocky letters across the front, her blood running cold in her engorged vessels.
MISSING PERSON
Fleetingly, hope seizes her, but she soon remembers nobody back home is heedful enough to report her missing, let alone realize sheâs missing in the first place. Additionally, the year suggests that the flyer is three years old. Her eyes slink down, trailing over whatâs still intact.
LAST SEEN: CLIFF TRAIL
$3,000 REWARD FOR INFORMATION
Foreboding clings to her flesh. She quivers, her knees weakening.
FIRST NAME: J-
The tail-end of it is smeared, the ink bleeding and thinning into the paper. Itâs unintelligible, so she trails her gaze lower, heeding the victimâs last name instead.
MACTAVISH.
âSweetie!â Peals out from behind her before she can read any more. âWhatâre you doinâ all the way here? Had me and Simon thinkinâ ye ran away or something. Hah.â
Johnny hurries close and swallows her flinch with a tight hug. He frowns at the flyer.Â
âWhyâre you readinâ this silly stuff?â He asks. He tears it off the tree and crumples it up, tossing it away. âThat shite gives yânightmares.â
âJohnny, Iââ
âYou went pee?â Johnny asks. Nearly makes her screech when he dips his hand low and cups her cunt, feeling around for any dregs of liquid. He buries his fingers unnecessarily deep between her puffy lips, blindly massaging.
âNoâŚâ he clicks his tongue. âNo. You didnât. Did ye lie to us? It dinnae matter, sweetie. Here. Do it here, pretty. Iâll wait.â
She musters whatever pluck she has left to shake her head.
However her spine is fickle. All it takes is Johnny glowering, his eyes darkening, his pout upending and curling into something meaner, to force her back into submission.
âSimonâs already angry ye pulled this stunt, sweetie,â he says. âIâm helpinâ you out.â
A tear escapes her. It rolls down her gaunt cheek like the dew that dribbles down trees. Sheâs quickly crying, expelling howls that burn her energy. She trembles as she squats to the forest floor and pushes pee out of her. She sniffles as she stands back up and lets the liquid sluice down her thighs.Â
âGood girl,â Johnny hums. âYouâre so much sweeter when ye listen, ye ken?âÂ
She sobs into her palms, her ribs so brittle they rattle together. Johnny coos vacantly at her, rubbing her all over the same way one rubs stone fruit to test their ripeness, and croons at her swelling ankle.
âSee what happens when youâre naughty?â He asks, picking her up, carrying her close to his chest. âLetâs get you home, honey. These woods are no place for a bird like you.â
She hates how she curls into him. Itâs her repressed underbelly fighting its way to the surface because the accumulation of neglectful family and friends has soured her, carving a chasm in her heart that forces her body to respond to Johnnyâs affections. Heâs a warm body for her, a pair of listening ears. Itâs scraps, but itâs more than sheâs ever gotten.
They make it back to the cabin in what feels like minutes. Simonâs waiting next to the door with his arms tightly crossed, his face meanly pinched. He growls like a provoked animal. He hovers like an executioner. Heâs the living antonym of light at the end of the tunnel, huffing like a bull as Johnny carries her inside.Â
âHow about you rest?â Johnny asks. He sets her down on her cot and pulls the blanket to her quivering chin, tucking her in. âWant some tea? What kind do you fancy?â
She purses her lips, trembling. Johnny sentimentally hums as if heâs sorry. As if he isnât a part of her plight. Her piercing fear and deep-seated fatigue.
âGarden mintâŚâ he says to himself. âIâll be right back, bonnie.â
He disappears and returns a few minutes later with a cup dwarfed in his hand. Steam curls over the rim, thinning into the barren bedroom. He tilts it into her mouth, nursing her.Â
With every sip she feels herself slip more and more back into the familiar territory of limbo. Her eyelids become heavy, her cognizance slackening.
She peels her tongue off her gums to muster a whisper. Itâs so weak. Barely audible.Â
âI wanna go⌠homeâŚâ
Johnny croons. He cups her cheek. âHoney, those people dinnae care about you. Not how me and Simon do. This can be your home.â
He raises the cup to her mouth again, stifling any protests on her tongue.
She hiccups around the drink, her eyes warm and wet.
Thatâs how she falls asleep.Â
With hypnotic tea invading her bloodstream, turning her eyelids heavy. Turning her helpless.
âââ
She wakes with a start.Â
Itâs a crack of thunder that had stirred her, she realizes, instead of the enigmatic sounds of bed springs snapping.
The bedroom is dark and bathed in midnight light. She can barely see anything, save for the barest outline of Johnny in the bed next to her. When lightning strikes, illuminating the sky with a blinding impact crack, sheâs able to see the swell of his body beneath his sheets and the shadow of his spun-thread hair. His chest rising and falling steadily.Â
Sheâs caked with sweat. Her perspiration soaks her flannel and makes it cling to her flesh, which is flared up as if she rolled in a pile of poison ivy. Her mind is so cluttered she almost folds over as she stands up, testing the grip of her toes on the wooden floor, testing her ability to balance herself.Â
Sheâs in limbo. A border space between heaven and hell, awaiting her execution. Thatâs how it feels as she tiptoes her way out of the room, reaching for an oil lamp, holding it out in front of her.Â
Itâs almost worse like this. A weak flame that barely illuminates her peripheral. She fears that should she turn too fast, an aberration will materialize from the margins of her view and tear her to ribbons.Â
At this point, she supposes thatâs a kinder fate.Â
She slips into a pair of large boots because she canât find her hiking shoes anywhere. She opens the door and pokes her head out, immediately met with the spray of rainwater on her face, the wind running through her ropes of neglected hair.
Sheets of heavy rain fall from the awning, creating another divide that keeps her trapped inside the cabin. She steps onto the porch, listening for any incongruous noises. Even if there were any, they would be bullied under the assault of rainfall. She canât hear her own thoughts like this, canât formulate a plan to get away from here once and for all.
So of course she doesnât hear the floorboards settle behind her. Of course, she doesnât hear the heavy drumming of feet closing in on her.
She doesnât heed the body behind her until Johnny is sniffing up her neck and snuffing out the oil lamp, laying hold of her in a grudging grip.Â
âYou just dinnae listen, do you?â
He takes her by the scruff of her neck and pulls her back into the cabin, knocking the lamp out of her grip. It falls to the floor and flares into a crash, louder than the rain. Almost louder than her sprinting heart and the blood rushing to her ears.
She wrestles against his grip. âFuck you bothâyou sick fucks!â
She almost vomits when her insults make Johnny moan, his cock fattening against her back in a crude Pavlovian response. Each time she struggles against him, his grip tightens. It reminds her of the mountain itself. The more she tries escaping its soporific arms, the deeper it drags her down. Itâs fruitless for her to fight itâthe whistle of the branches, the tight sinews of Johnnyâs grip.Â
He swings his arm around her neck, pinning her against his chest in a headlock. Her lungs stutter and her eyes turn dewy, her deep-seated fear ripening into paralyzing terror.
A web of lightning shatters the sky, and she almost dies right there.
Itâs Simon but worse. A mutation gone wrong. A changeling, perhaps. Heâs squeezed inside the threshold, breathing wildly. His wifebeater is torn in different places across his body, split around tufts of fur. Fur that is matted with thick ichor, wiry and sprouting from the spot behind his ears.
Another flash of lightning ignites the cabin, revealing the shaggy coat of hair on his chest. The sheet of fat over his stomach that flutters when he puffs, growling under his breath. He clenches his jaw because he canât clench his hands, because his thick fingers have turned into claws, sharp spires covered in gore.
Simon snarls. Blood and spit drip from his bloodied teeth as if heâs a rabid animal with a limp maw. He rolls his shoulders and cracks the cartilage in his neck, the sound pealing out so loudly, itâs more like the popping of bubble wrap in rapid succession.Â
She can barely see him through her tear-filled eyes. Itâs the epilogue to her life as he strides in close, biting his talons into her hips and drawing out blood. A snarl of satisfaction escapes him when he smells itâher blood, sweet, albeit stale due to her dehydration.Â
âAnyone ever told you youâre an ungrateful mutt?â He growls. âI give you food to eat anâ clothes on your back but here you are, tryinâ to sod off.â
Her cheeks dimple when he grabs her jaw. She opens her mouth to protest, but her grievances get smothered beneath Simonâs claws. He stuffs his fingers down her mouth, stunting her complaints. She gags and coughs around the taste of metal and mire crusted under his claws, bile shooting up her throat.
âDogs donât talk,â he tuts.Â
He hoists his arm back and she puckers, preparing for an attack. However, instead of her cheek, Simonâs hand slices against her shirt. He tears her flannel into ribbons, making the fabric slide off her like water from a milk bath.
She stands naked, her skin pocked with fear. She shivers despite being pressed between Simonâs furry chest and Johnnyâs warm arms.Â
ââBout time someone taught you some manners,â Simon mumbles. âI was in the middle of my dinner you know? Fuckinâ rude to interrupt.â
She blanches when she sees a limp coyote behind him, splayed out on the porch. She recognizes it as the orpiment-coloured fur to the hair flossed between Simonâs teeth.
She screams as he wrestles her from Johnnyâs grip, pulling her towards the bedroom. Simon throws her onto the stiff mattress, her spine shuddering from the impact. She tries covering herself, tries wrapping her arms around her body, but Simon is having none of that.Â
He pounces, taking her hips and pinning them to the bed. He hovers over her, rainwater dripping from his broken nose, impossibly large as he makes up her whole world. Simon swallows her entire view, leaving her with no chances of escape.Â
Her gaze flutters down to the chub outlined by his sweatpants and decides sheâs left with no chances of survival, either.
She flails her legs as Simon slithers low, flattening his nose against her cunt. She lets out a protracted cry as he hitches his lungs and inhales, breathing in the musk of her bare cunt. The sweat stuck between her fuzzy hair, the sticky arousal that spreads as he forces her legs open.Â
Simon hisses. It rides the ruck of his throat, expelled from his nose. Itâs not in any capacity a human sound. It seems more like a bear flaring its nostrils, poised for attack.
Johnny notices the confusion between her eyebrows because heâs leaning in and murmuring against the shell of her ear, licking it.
âRemember whaâ I said about matinâ season, kitty?â
Johnny leans away, leaving it at that. Equivocal and cryptic and calcified into the furrows of her brain. She isnât allowed to wade in her confusion though because Simonâs tongue is lolling out, sweeping a fat stripe over her pussy.
Itâs like the first thaw of spring. Simon licks her open, spreads her out on his tongue. She canât help the immediate warmth that courses through her, swathing her in silk.Â
She cries out. Her back bends off the mattress when Simon pulls her lips into his mouth to suck.Â
She looks to Johnny for help. She twists herself and tries reaching out, tries crawling off the mattress, but Simon is gripping her ankle and popping the gauze of her bandage with his claws, pulling her back down, wrapping his lips around her engorged clit.
Johnnyâs face doesnât show contrition, but is pinched in jealousy. He watches with a fat mass growing in his sweatpants.
She splits her hand over Simonâs shaved head, using the cauliflowered shell of his ear to try pulling him off of her. That only makes him growl, the vibrations quavering up her spine, his claws digging into her flesh.Â
She folds her arms over her face, sobbing. Simonâs tongue is wet and hot against her pussy, lapping between her soft folds, slurping her juices. She flushes at how wet she is. At how pleasure leaks through the cracks in her resolve and spreads all over her, reducing her to a panting mess.Â
Simon releases her clit with a pop. He raises to his knees, towering over her, and now sheâs unsure if his glistening chin is because of the rainwater outside or her arousal.Â
âHold her down, Johnny.â
Her heart drums against her chest. Johnny crawls onto the bed and kneels behind her head. He pins her wrists down with his kneecaps, keeping her from squirming.
âWill ye let me put my cock in âer mouth?â Johnny asks. âSimon, will youââ
âShut it,â Simon snaps. He shoves down his sweatpants, his cock springing out. All of her nerves bristle like rope, her heart sputtering to a stop.
Simonâs cock is fat and heavy. It droops between his thighs, drooling with precum. Itâs stiff but hangs because heâs so large, the engorged tip angling downward, his balls plump, ruddy.
He chokes his hand around it, tugging it. Her throat closes in on itself but her legs instinctively peel apart. Her puffy lips spread open and she flushes at the sticky sound, hoisting her neck back to look at Johnny.
He has his cock out too, pumping it. He grins when they lock eyes and smacks his dick against her cheek. Johnny presses his cockhead into the corner of her mouth, using it to tilt her lips into a repugnant curl. Itâs reminiscent of a smile, but it isnât one.Â
She wails.
They both make up her beginning and end. They trap her between themselves, leaving her with no escape. Simon at her feet, Johnny at her head. Each of the men are more intimidating than the other, both inspiring fear in her feeble heart. Both inspiring unwanted arousal between her legs.Â
Simon slaps his flaring tip against her clit. She mewls and hates herself for bucking her hips into him. Sheâs dew-skinned as Simon pushes her knees to her ears, thumbing her clit.
He deeply inhales.
His chest expands, tugging at the steel-wool hair felted against his big chest. He quivers as he expels his breath, his mating call, and finally feeds her his cock, pushing past her first ring of muscle.
Her body tries curling in on itself like a Venus flytrap, but Johnny is quicker. He bites his fingers into her wrists and pins her to the mattress, keeping her still while Simon stuffs himself deeper. Johnny kisses her tears away while he does it. Itâs oxymoronic and itâs betrayalâa Judas kissâwhile he wraps his lips around sweet encouragement against her cheeks.
âGot so much fight in ye, sweetie,â he whispers. âJust stop strugglinâ and itâll feel good.â
Simon leans over her, his cock slipping deeper into her warm cunt. The blood and saliva from his maw drips onto her chest, the blood is so fresh thereâs still steam, hitting her like scythes.
Johnnyâs getting restless. He watches raptly as Simon starts slamming his hips into her. Johnny ruts against the chafe of her brittle hair and hopes it will give him satisfaction by proxy, but it does little to offset the ache in his balls. His lip warbles.
âSimon, please,â a voice crack, âcan I put my cock in âer mouth?â
âFine,â Simon growls. His hips are piston-paced against the girlâs skin, unrelenting and uncaring to how her nails scratch striated lines down his chest in her struggle. âJust stop interruptinâ us.â
Her jaw cramps when Johnny cups her chin. He puppets it open and forces his fingers down. Theyâre caked with dirt as he swirls them over her tongue, coaxing up the warm spit from the furrow of her throat to be used as a natural lube.Â
The only mercy she gets is the stint of time between Johnny pulling his fingers out and gripping his dick, laying it on her tongue. He forces her lips apart with the tip of his cock, smearing himself all over her.Â
âSo pretty like this sweetheart,â he hums. âSimon smelt it on ye. Hundreds of klicks away. How sweet yâare.âÂ
She doesnât have the energy to decipher that. Most of it is being wrung on trying to fight the two men off, but itâs fruitless. Johnny is already slipping into her mouth, and her cunt is already stretched around Simonâs plump cock.Â
Johnny starts pumping in and out, his cock embroidering a burn in the hinges of her jaw.
She lies there limply, but as Johnnyâs wiry hair meets her nose, she realizes thereâs one thing she can do. In her thrashing, she undertakes the lapse of judgement to clamp her teeth together, sinking them into Johnny.
He yells and pulls himself out. Johnny wraps a hand around himself, squeezing, placating the sting. A warm wash of tears twine his eyelashes together, long and babydoll-like. He looks to Simon, preening, imploring.Â
âShe bit me.âÂ
Simon slows his hips, only scarcely so. Only enough for her to fill her lungs halfway before heâs dragging himself out agonizingly slow, burying himself back inside.Â
His eyes, hungry, flutter down to her. His lips wind back, revealing his sharp fangs. He snickers.Â
âNow youâve pissed him off, hm? Dumb girl. This is why puppies need owners.â
He pinches her clit, softly tweaking it between the pads of his fingers. He looks at Johnny and condescendingly smirks.Â
âCâmere, boy. If she wonât suck you off, why not take a go at her other hole?â
She tenses. Fear washes over her like a rip current, all the way down to her ass that squeezes in protest. Her heart feels too big for her chest suddenly. She canât even see Johnnyâs blinding grin through her cloudy eyes as brine tracks down her cheeks, mixing with her sweat.Â
She whimpers. âNoââ
A palm whistles through the air, exploding into a crack of thunder as it breaks against the skin of her cheek.Â
She lapses into silence. Little hiccups escape her while she peers up at Simon, sniffling.Â
âYes,â he says.Â
He grips her by her hips and flips her over. This way, Simonâs on his back and sheâs on top of him, his cock digging deeper. The position is etched with a degree of intimacy that causes heat to pool in her bellyâshe can feel his hot breath fanning over her face, she can see his feline-like eyes better. Â
She almost jumps out of her skin when Johnny presses his fingers into her ass, trying to break her in. He thumbs at the puckered muscle, chuckling when it tries squirming away from him.Â
âCute little thing,â he says. âShe ever been fucked?â
The way she sobs when Johnny forces his forefinger inside gives him his answer. He almost comes right there. At the sound of her slick lubing her up, at the sound of her being torn open like a stone fruit and her pitiful cries for mercy.Â
âStopâŚâÂ
âStop?â Johnny repeats, âSweetie, if I stop itâll hurt when I fuck you. Ye need prep, silly.â
That only wracks her ribs harder. The patrionizing lilt in his voice, the way he pats her bum like sheâs nothing but a dumb puppy. Johnny sinks another finger in, knuckle-deep, and curls himself into the walls of her ass, massaging it.
Simon starts thrusting again. He takes one of her tits in his mouth and tongues at her nipple, snapping his hips into her. It only adds more pressure to her other hole, the one being fingered open by Johnny.
âYâthink sheâs ready, sweetie?â Johnny asks. He slaps his cock against her hole, teasing her. âI think sheâs fuckinâ hungry. Look at âer winkinâ back at me.â
Johnny collects the saliva moulded into his gums and sputters out a wad of spit, wetting her tight asshole. He presses his cockhead against her opening, pushing himself inside.
She buckles, doubling over. Her cheek falls on Simonâs chest, chafing against his coarse hair. Sheâs never felt so full. Folded between the men and being fed two big cocks, left with no space to breathe. She isnât given respite. No mercy. No time for her to stretch around their cocks.
Johnny splits his hand across the divot where her spine begins and shoves her into Simon. Her jaw hangs loose, her lips parted dumbly, her drool trickling onto Simonâs chest. Sheâs limp. Letting them have her way with her. Letting them brand her with their fingers digging sickle-shaped scratches into her skin. Letting them break her open with each of their jackhammering thrusts, letting their pants of encouragement and degradation swirl around her like whistles from the woodland, causing goosebumps to arise and her head to pound.
âDo ye feel it, Simon?â Johnny pants. âIs it cominâ on?â
His words sprawl by like a lazy river in her mind. Desultory, like lukewarm water. They donât click into the empty chasm of her cognizance until something else happens. Something inhuman. Something that has her choking on the raw bile that scratches her throat and the spit coaxed into the rivets of her tongue by Johnnyâs assaulting fingers.
Simonâs ramming gets shaved into stunted thrusts. It isnât due to a loss of energy, but is due to something else keeping him from slipping out. A balloon pushing against the walls of her pussy, swelling inside her. It isnât fat but is chubby enough for her to feel it, flutter around it.
The knot snarled into Simonâs cock plugs her up. She canât pull herself off him because itâs puffed up past her cunt, keeping her stuck on top of him. It doesnât help that Johnny keeps slamming his hips into her, riling the thin skin that separates her cunt from her ass, bending it to the shape of Simonâs cock.
Johnny gasps. âIâm closeâ shite, Iâm close.â
She doesnât want to admit it, but she is too. She feels her nerves begin to fray at their edges, her stomach wearing thin. Johnny slips his hand low and blindly sweeps at her clit, nibbling on the husk of her ear.
He only gets three more pumps in until heâs emptying his balls in her ass. He grabs her hair when he comes, puppetting her head back so her mouth falls open and he can spit inside. His thrusts are slow and deep and peter into something calm, his cock softening inside her. Johnny grins.
âSay thank you, kitty.â
It crosses her tongue as an unintelligible mumble. She canât speak properly with Simonâs cock still in her.
Johnny chuckles at that. He wraps his arms around her and pinches her nipples. Twisting them, pulling them.
Simonâs so big beneath her, lounging like a bear. He fucks into her, his thrusts curtailing into sloppy snaps of his hips.
âHeâs close, bonnie,â Johnny says. âKiss âim when he comes. Itâs what he likes.â
Finally, Simonâs knot unravels, his thick ropes of come sticking to her walls. He makes sure that the warm come dressing her is so deep, itâll have no choice but to take.Â
Her body betrays her when it crests and crashes into her orgasm. Sheâs flashbanged with blinding light, gushing out an off-white liquid that coats Simonâs thighs. It seizes her so deeply it hurts, the panoramic pleasure. An orgasm that makes her brain melt, makes her feel otherworldly.
Belatedly, she remembers Johnnyâs order. She leans down to kiss Simon, her lips leathery against his. She only wants a modest peckâsomething to sate Johnnyâbut she canât pull away because her bottom lip is caught between Simonâs teeth, pinched, and being sapped of its blood.
He laps it up before letting her go.Â
He slips his softening cock out but keeps his come inside her with two fingers, his claws having retracted.
He huffs like a bull. He presses his heavy paw into her abused cunt, palming it. He reeks with a carnal musk, the aftertaste of his rut heavy in the air.
Suddenly, it all makes sense to her.
Simon is the crux of all cautionary tales. The mountains arenât sworn off because of rabid raccoons or feral fishers but because of something eldritch, whose reputation and folklore precedes any proof of its existence. Whatever Simon is, it canât be put into words or into anything material, so heâs condensed into the urban legends that have haunted the woods for centuries. The stories that keep hikers off needle-covered paths and unmarked trees and make them carry crucifixes in lieu of bear spray.
She doesnât even realize sheâs softly sobbing. It feels like thatâs all she does these days.
Johnny hugs her as if he hadnât taken a part of her dignity.Â
He kisses her, kittening into her so that Simon is able to wrap his arms around them both, hugging them.Â
The calm that lolls after the storm only bruises her further. They act so normal after theyâve stripped her of everything. Johnny massaging her thighs, Simon igniting a cigarette between his lips.Â
âWill you ever let me go?â She mumbles against Simonâs chest.Â
He exhales the smoke. âGo where, love? You came into my house, remember?â
Johnny wonât stop kissing her. Heâs a pest thatâs attached itself to her dewy flesh, trying to lick her clean. Simon curls his fingers in her and makes sure thatâs where his come stays.
Simon takes another drag of his cigarette. âNot like anyone back home would miss you, anyhow.â
âââ
She watches with a smile on her face as Johnny roasts the flank of a moose on a homemade grill and as Simon chops some more firewood.
She lounges in a chair, swathed in her caribou-hide coat. Winter is at its height, laying a skin of pillowy snow across the mountain.
The cubs wriggle in her lap, pawing at the loose tendrils of her hair and trying to pinch her nose.
âLookinâ so pretty today, mama,â Johnny hums. She giggles when he kisses her, scratching at the cubsâ bellies.Â
âAinât she bonnie?â Johnny turns around and prompts Simon, âOur wee looker.â
Simon pauses his wood chopping and nods. He grips the hem of his lumbermanâs jacket and raises it to his forehead to wipe his sweat away, revealing his chest and his hair that disappears into the waistband of his jeans. The cubs yip when he resumes his chopping, splitting a tree stump in two.Â
She grins.Â
She loves her family. Her providers and the offspring of their seed. She loves the cubsâ fine hair rubbing against her cheek when they jump on the bed to wake them up in the mornings, their blunt fangs biting her when theyâre hungry, and the tiny chines on their back where their sharp spine will eventually grow in, just like Simonâs.
Briefly, she tries to remember her other family. The one that came before this one. But all that encompasses her mind is a supermassive black hole in place of memories. For some reason she canât delineate them. The face of her father is blurry and the features of her mother fit together like a crudely sewn patchwork quilt.
She doesnât remember much of her family. Itâs kind of weird. She canât remember if they liked her or not.
But she knows that doesnât matter. Not when she has doting men around her and their litter hanging off her hips, another one currently swelling under her belly.
She pays no heed to the missing person posters taped to the fringes of the mountain that look eerily similar to her. Not to the K-9âs that try tracking scents but fail because sheâs written with Simon and Johnnyâs musk. She ignores the odd helicopter passing through each month, scarcely flying past their ramshackle cabin.
None of it matters because she knows sheâs where she needs to be.
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inspired by this - 3.6k perverts!priceghost x f!reader (mostly unedited bc im lazy) (on ao3)
cw: dark fic, noncon touching, noncon fingering, dirty talk, praise, public sex (no getting caught, just the very brief threat of it)
You know itâs wrong to judge a book by its cover, but that doesnât stop your heart from sinking when you realize who youâll be sitting beside for your twelve hour flight.Â
At first you think youâre looking at the wrong row - thereâs been an error, and the row youâre looking at only has two seats instead of three. The space between the man sitting in the window seat and the man sitting in the aisle seat is simply miniscule, thereâs no way thatâs where youâre meant to sit.
But it is. Your ticket still reads 8B after three checks just to be sure, and the number posted on the luggage compartment doesnât change even after you rub your eyes. Jesus.
The man in the aisle seat has a thick brown beard and a paperback novel held close to his face, reading glasses resting on his nose. The book looks comically tiny in his hands, and he has to squint a bit even with the glasses to read. If he werenât so big, you wouldnât say heâs intimidating at all, but heâs so broad that his shoulders donât fully rest on his seat, and the woman walking in front of you has to turn to avoid brushing him.
His neighbor isnât any smaller, and he doesnât have a book and glasses to make him look less intimidating. You canât see any of his features because heâs wearing a ski-mask that covers every inch of skin except for his eye-sockets, and the high turtleneck covers the rest of his neck where the mask stops. His arms are crossed over his chest, and his shirt is so tight that the seams almost look like theyâre ready to split where his biceps are the biggest. Itâs absolutely ridiculous.
With one last look at your ticket number, you resign yourself to a full day of being squeezed between the absolute mountains that are your apparent seat partners. Maybe youâll get lucky and the plane will be empty and a flight attendant will take mercy on you and guide one of them to an empty seat, but you know itâs wishful thinking.Â
âExcuse me,â you say quietly, inching around the leg angled out into the aisle. The man it belongs to gives you a smile and a nod, but he doesnât move for you. âSorry,â you mutter, awkwardly leaning one hand on the seat behind him so you can heft your bag into the overhead compartment and push it closed, the heel of your hand brushing his shoulder. You feel a draft over the accidentally-bared skin of your stomach and all the blood in your body rushes to your cheeks as you quickly tug your shirt back down, fingers fumbling.
ââS no problem, honey,â he says, voice so low pitched it almost disappears in the sounds of the planeâs engine. The hairs on your arm stand up and you hesitate for a moment in the aisle, smiling nervously at the man in front of you in the hopes that heâll maybe stand up, or shift a bit at all so you can step into the seat.Â
He doesnât, only settles back a little further in his seat and folds his hands over his stomach, book abandoned in the little pocket on the back of the seat in front of him. You know itâs not a trick of the light when his eyes flicker down to your chest before back up, his lips quirked underneath his mustache.
Bastard. Youâre dressed for a twelve hour flight, the baggy sweatshirt youâre wearing doesnât do anything for your form, and heâs got the audacity to ogle you?
Itâs impossible not to brush against his thighs when you step over him. His legs are spread enough to leave a not-so-small space between his knees, but you very intentionally take the risk of stretching all the way to the middle seat. You have to hold onto the headrest in front of you to avoid falling over his lap, but itâs worth it when you fall into your seat instead of one of their laps.
Even with your knees tucked close together, their legs press against you. You can feel their shoulders against you too, a solid pressure closing you in on both sides. Neither one of them shift to give you more room.
God. Itâs going to be a long flight.
âââââââââââââââââââââââ
The first hours of the flight is uneventful.Â
You try early on to subtly get yourself more room by pressing your knees against theirs, hoping they take the hint. The man on your right doesnât shift, but the man on your left pushes back against you, leaving you with even less room than you had initially. You give up that method quickly.
You last about thirty minutes after take off with your shoulders hunched and your legs squeezed together before breaking and leaning forward just enough to look to your right, at the less-intimidating man, tapping his elbow where it rests next to you.
âExcuse me,â you start, having spent the last several minutes rehearsing your request in your head. âWould you mindââ
âOf course, how could I forget,â he interrupts you with a small chuckle, angling his big body towards yours. âJohn Price. Lovely to meet you,â he says, holding out a hand.
âOh,â you say, tentatively shaking his hand and introducing yourself on instinct. âItâs good to meet you too. Would you mind, um, maybe giving me a bit more space?â
He smiles at you, looking down at where your knees are tucked together like he had no idea he was taking up half of your leg-space.Â
âSorry, honey, I canât take up much less space,â he says, huffing a laugh and dropping one big, heavy hand on your thigh. âSimon and I arenât small men. Seems youâll be the one paying the price today, hm?âÂ
You force an awkward laugh, the hairs along your arms standing up on end at what has to be an intentional innuendo. John squeezes your thigh, his hand big enough that his fingers rest just a little too close to a part of you he should not be touching. When he doesnât lift his hand immediately you shift a bit, angling your knees towards the other man - Simon, apparently - and he takes the hint, patting you twice and folding his hands back over his stomach.Â
Heâs making absolutely no attempt to take up less space, and heâs not even trying to hide it.Â
You glance towards your left, and the thought of asking Simon if he can shift away from your personal space evaporates when you instantly lock eyes with him. Heâs not subtle about staring at you, his entire head turned towards you and his chin tilted down so his eye-line couldnât be more clear.
Your cheeks feel like theyâre on fire as you turn to face the seat in front of you, sinking back into your chair and tucking your feet beneath the row in front of you.Â
The rows all around you are empty - a miracle youâd be more thankful for, if either of your row-partners were taking advantage of it and moving. Surely theyâd be more comfortable if they moved? It seems absurd that theyâd rather squeeze you between them than take an entire row to themselves, but that seems to be the case.Â
When the flight attendant stops by to offer you a drink and a small bag of pretzels, you ask about moving.
âSorry,â she smiles apologetically, glancing at where youâre squeezed. âNo moving seats once weâre in the air. Youâll have to make do, Iâm afraid.â She moves along with her cart before you can ask if sheâs absolutely sure.Â
ââFraid youâre stuck with us, sweetie,â John says, smiling down at you. His grin is somewhere between condescending and vaguely paternal, and youâre not sure you like the feeling it gives you in your stomach. âWeâll be good to you, promise.â
Again, all you can do is force a laugh and turn away, hoping he wonât keep pushing. His shoulder is warm against yours, softer than Simonâs, and youâre already more than ready for this flight to be over.
Unluckily for you, youâve got another eleven hours with these men.
You close your eyes and take a deep breath, trying not to make it obvious that youâre thinking about screaming.
âââââââââââââââââââââââ
When you open your eyes what must be a few hours later, the plane is dark. The only light comes from a small reading light turned on several rows in front of you, and the soft glow of the lights down the aisle.
You hardly realized youâd fallen asleep, let alone that you were now waking up. The drowsiness clings to you, your eyes heavy and your body surprisingly warm considering you hadnât had a blanket.
It takes you another few moments to realize someoneâs touching you. Two someoneâs, if you can count the number of hands on your body correctly.
âWhaâ...â you mumble, shifting forward a bit and blinking until your vision clears.
âHush, honey,â you hear from your right, a heavy hand stroking your thigh and another rubbing over your hair. âPeople are sleeping.â
You shift forward a bit, then gasp when you feel another hand slip over the front of your pants. Thereâs a jacket resting over you, thatâs whatâs keeping you so warm, and it also keeps you from seeing whoâs hand is currently cupping your center.
âWh-whatâre youâŚâ you whisper, shifting as far back as you can, panic quickly rising in your throat. âWhatâs going on?â
âItâs alright,â John coos, the hand on your hair coming down to rest on your breast, squeezing lightly. He chuckles when you gasp and jolt away, only pushing yourself further into Simon. âWeâre just gonna have a little fun with you, âs all. Just gotta relax and be good for us.â
âStop,â you whisper. It does nothing, Simonâs hand - and it must be his - slipping down the front of your sweatpants and bypassing your underwear. You whimper when his fingers split the lips of your cunt. âStop it, stop, Iâll- Iâll scream.âÂ
âSo?â The man behind you rumbles, and the first sound of his voice sends shivers down your spine. Without warning, he sinks a finger into you, easily following your hips when you try to squirm away. âYou think the stewardess gives a shit what we do to you?â
ââSides, I think you want to be good for us,â John says, lifting your right leg and laying it over his thigh. Simon slips a second finger inside of you and your eyes squeeze shut at the invasion. âDonât you, honey? Thisâll feel better for you if you behave.âÂ
âPlease,â you whisper, blinking tearily up at John and slapping at his arm. Simonâs free hand comes up to rest around your throat, and you canât help but gasp at the feeling of his rough calluses on your hyper-sensitive skin. âPlease, please donât do this. I donât know what you want, but-â
âYou stupid, girl?â Simon huffs, grinding the heel of his palm cruelly into your clit. You throw your head back, teeth gritted against the sharp pleasure. âDonât want anythinâ but this. Just sit still and be quiet.â
The noise you make sounds wounded, and you only become more distressed when you see the way Johnâs eyes are trained are yours, his desire palpable in the small space between you.
Itâs harder than youâd admit to keep from moaning. Simonâs skilled with his fingers, the three of them - because heâs shoved another inside of you, ignoring your squirming - thick and crooking at just the right angle. His wrist is bent at a horribly awkward angle but it doesnât seem to bother him as he pushes his palm up into your clit almost painfully hard.
Your foot flexes where it dangles between Johnâs thighs, your knee holding him tight despite your desire to crawl away from both of them.Â
He slips one of his hands down to yours, lacing your fingers together and holding on tight as you feel an orgasm slowly begin to heat in your blood.Â
âFeels good, hm?â John rumbles, stroking a thumb over the back of your knuckles. âI bet youâre makinâ Simon feel good, too. She tight for you?â
âLike a vice,â Simon grunts, ducking his head over yours and shoving his nose into your hairline, breathing deeply. He uses the hand not fucking you to shove his mask up, enough that you can feel the shape of his lips as he mouths over your ear, teeth sharp. âGonna feel fuckinâ heavenly on our cocks.â
âPlease donât,â you gasp, heart racing.
âSettle,â John commands, his hand tightening on your thigh for just a moment. âCanât fuck you here anyway. Gonna have to smuggle you back to the bathrooms for a quickie, arenât we Simon?â
âNo,â you say on a moan, your hips working against your will as your peak rises in you, your heart stuttering in your chest.
âToo cramped,â Simon grunts, wrapping his arm around your neck and holding you in a loose headlock as he focuses more intently on your g-spot, fingers pressing against just the right spot to make you feel like youâre losing your mind. âGonna break mâ fuckinâ back bendinâ her over the sink.â
John chuckled. âYou donât wanna fuck her then?â
âNever said that,â Simon shoots back, the scowl audible in his voice.
You wrap one hand around Simonâs forearm as your orgasm creeps up on you, gasps punched from your chest as you writhe in his arms, nails digging into his sleeves. Your eyes are squeezed so tightly shut that the few tears resting in your waterline slide down your cheek.
âPretty girl,â you hear John coo, a big and warm thumb brushing your tears away. Your eyes fly open as you pant, nearly cross-eyed with pleasure. His hand covers the entire side of your face, fingertips resting in your hair. âOh, youâre right there arenât you? âS alright, you can come. Go ahead, honey.â
Before you can ever register whatâs happening, Simonâs hand flies over your mouth as you reach your peak. It rocks through your body, sending shocks from your toes up to where you can feel the nose pressed to your scalp. Your eyes roll back in your head as your entire body goes tense, Simon not giving you a moment of rest as he finger fucks you through your orgasm.
âThere you go,â John rumbles. You feel the jacket resting over you shift and open your eyes just in time to see him look down at where Simonâs fingers are buried inside of you, his palm working leisurely at your clit. âSuch a good girl. Put on a good show for us, hm? Bet youâll do even better when you donât have to stay quiet. Bet you make real pretty noises, donât you?â
You canât do anything but pant from behind the hand covering your mouth.Â
A moment later, Simon pulls his fingers from you. You canât help but wince, at both the loss and the way he pats the meat of your cunt before pulling his hand away completely, wetness smearing on your stomach.
He holds his hand in front of your face, and the way your cum is literally dripping from his fingers only serves to work you back up, even so soon after your orgasm. Your hands shake where youâre clinging to the two men.Â
âLemme have a taste,â John says, grabbing Simonâs wrist and tugging it closer to him, swallowing his pointer finger down to the knuckle easily. He closes his eyes, visibly savoring the taste of you. âDelicious,â he hums, licking his lips when he pulls back.Â
âYou now,â Simon grunts, pulling away from John and taking his hand away from your mouth, shoving his middle finger and ring finger past your lips before you can even try to speak. âGet a good taste, bird.âÂ
You gag when he pushes to the back of your throat, but he pulls back just enough to tease you with the threat of it after you gag.Â
You nearly bite him, teeth just beginning to put pressure on his knuckles when his free hand comes up to your jaw, shaking you roughly.
âNo,â he scolds, squeezing the hinge of your jaw until you whine, high-pitched and breathy. âBad girl. No biting.â
You nod as best you can, loosening the light hold youâd had on him. He only grunts in approval, releasing your jaw and pushing another few centimeters into your throat.
Reluctantly, and with your panic growing again, you lick his fingers clean. You feel boneless and limp, but neither of the men keeping you folded between them is any less tense than they were when you first opened your eyes. You keep your eyes carefully averted from Johnâs face, even though heâs nearly all you can see because of how close heâs leaning.Â
Simon pulls his fingers from your lips with a pop, and you take a few deep, gasping breaths, desperate for an ounce of calm so you can actually think again.Â
âMy turn,â John says quietly, shifting your leg off of his and wrapping one hand around your waist, tugging your body into his. You go easily, his arm wrapping around your shoulder and keeping you tucked tight to his side. You can only stare up at him wide-eyed as he shifts the jacket covering you - and now that you look more closely you know itâs the one Simon was wearing earlier - over his own lap.
John grunts and your breath shudders when you recognize the sound of his belt unbuckling. You stare at the seat in front of you, forcing yourself not to look at what heâs hiding underneath the jacket covering him.Â
âHere,â John says, grabbing your hand with a light but unbreakable grip. You try to resist but it doesnât do any good for you, heâs still able to guide your hand down to the cock laid against his stomach without a struggle.
You canât help but whimper when he wraps your fingers around his length. You find yourself absurdly thankful that they donât seem to want to fuck you - your fingers donât even fully wrap around his shaft, the idea of taking him inside of you sounds like a nightmare.
âSoft hands,â John mumbles, almost to himself. âGo ahead and grab me, honey, you can squeeze a little.â
You donât follow his instructions, but it doesnât matter to him. He wraps his hand around yours, squeezing for you. Your shoulders hunch a little, head ducking, and when your gaze lowers you canât help but look at the length of him in your grip.Â
Heâs bigger than youâd thought, somehow. Long and thick, the tip of him ruddy and his balls swollen where they rest on his folded down boxers. The tip of him is damp, his pre-cum slicking your fist as he jacks himself off with your hand.Â
His head is tilted towards you, mouth open just enough to let him pant as he stares down at your face, your own lips damp.Â
âFeels good, pretty girl. Gonna make me come all over Simonâs jacket, arenât you?âÂ
âIâll bill you,â Simon grunts on your other side, and when you turn to look at him you see heâs got his own cock pulled out, jerking it with such a tight grip that his knuckles have gone white. You canât help but gasp at the sight, his own length pale and flushed red, fat and ugly. He runs his tounge over his teeth when you look back up at his face and you turn your head away quickly.Â
He grunts, and your row of seats shift as he fucks up into his own fist, almost treating it like a fleshlight with how rough heâs being. John, conversely, lets you keep your grip loose and almost limp as he fucks into the hole your fingers make. The arm holding you to him is like iron, holding you tight to him and not giving you an inch of space.
âFuck,â John grunts, head dipping lower and huffing heavy breaths, your hair fluttering away from your face from the air. âMakinâ me feel so good, honey, youâre doing so well. Gonna come, give you a little treat.â
You can feel Simon still at your back, can hear his breaths become more ragged as he comes over his fist. Your fast glance shows you tattooed knuckles covered in his cum, his flushed cock limp and soft where it rests on his lap. His eyes are dark, gaze resting on your lips. You donât even have time to take a breath before his fingers are shoved into your mouth again.
He moans now, scraping his knuckles over your teeth as he tugs his fingers slowly out. Your hand instinctively tightens around Johnâs length, squeezing it in stress.
âFuck,â he hisses from next to you, arm tightening around you and wrapping around your front, forcing you to turn a bit. Simon ignores your shifting, holding his hand like a fist in front of your lips. You canât help but flinch away from what feels like a threat, until you see the cum still splattered across his hand.
âLick,â he commands, his voice so low and rumbly you almost canât hear it over the plane. âCâmon, clean me up.â
Your fingers are nearly shaking around the cock still in your grip, and you feel Johnâs chest rising beneath yours, his breaths puffing over your head. He hooks his chin over your head, wrapping himself entirely around you. You can feel sweat dripping down your spine from the heat of him, your palm clammy and damp with pre-cum.Â
You stick your tongue out tentatively when Simon presses his hand against your face, your lips squishing against your teeth. You give his knuckles small kitten-licks, the salt of him strong on your tongue. He twists his hand a bit in front of your mouth, but doesnât give you an inch of space until youâve cleaned his hand completely.Â
You can tell when John comes from the way his body shudders against yours, his nose tucked right behind your ear and his hand squeezing yours tightly, giving up on slow, soft strokes in favor of squeezing the cum from his tip.Â
âFuckinâ perfect, sweetie,â he says, voice nearly a growl as he pushes himself further into you. âPerfect girl, beinâ so good and behavinâ so well for us. Gonna have to get you somethinâ nice when we touch down, hm?â
You close your eyes and shiver against the idea of not touching down and running as far from these men as possible. Youâd thought maybe you could lose them in the airport - where better to get lost in a crowd.
But Johnâs grip hasnât relaxed around you at all, and looking up into Simonâs dark eyes, you get the dawning sense that these men arenât going to be easy to shake.
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there are so many cod writing blogs on here omg. im excited to look around and follow ppl tomorrow
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Your prison penpal story is amazing, I canât wait to read more of it! Sorry if this is a redundant question, but are you making it into a series? If so, Iâm so excited to see what happensđ¤
AHHHHH ty for reading <3 im glad you liked it. itâll definitely be a multi chapter thing. im not entirely sure how many chapters but i do have a pretty decent amount planned out. itâll likely depend on how long i wanna make chapters and break it up in the future. and who knows it might get away from me and become some long thing haha
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the crooks are out, and the streets are grey
aka a prison pen pal au
this is incredibly self-indulgent. tags will be updated accordingly with a warning on each chapter when necessary. i'm a big fan of ghoap being perverted violent freaks if you couldn't tell.
thanks for reading besties. sorry there isn't any direct reader x ghost interaction yet. i promise it's coming.
you can also find me on twitter
[cw implied sexual harassment, future dubcon, explicit sexual content] 18+ MDNI
AO3
Part 1
It starts with a little slip of paper shoved under the bars of his shared cell with Soap.Â
An official notice to inform inmates of the start of a new pen pal program the following week. Some rehabilitative bullshit about encouraging good behavior and rehabilitating prisoners on track to be released within the next few years. Ghost canât help but roll his eyes as he crumples up the slip of paper and makes his way to the prison yard. Doesnât give it another thought.Â
That is until he receives a letter. Packaged in a little envelope with the prettiest handwriting heâs ever seen, addressed to the one and only Simon V. Riley: Inmate #634. The envelope had been torn open with a letter opener, read by prison staff, and searched for contraband, of course, before it made its way through the slot of his cell door. It comes in a lilac envelope and it's even adorned with a pretty little heart right next to his name scrawled in cursive.Â
Ghost shoves the pastry he swiped in the cafeteria from a new inmate into his mouth as he rips open the letter with mild interest. He lets out a snort when he sees that the staple holding the pages of the letter together was ripped out by whatever guard had gotten stuck with mail duty today. He knows that youâll have already received an angry voicemail from the prison advising you that all mail to inmates must be paperclip and staple free upon arrival.Â
He glances over the letter with disinterest, a couple paragraphs introducing yourself and one detailing your excitement about joining the program. He only skims his way to the second page where you start to ask him questions about himself before heâs crumpling up the pages to shove under his bunk. Heâll be free of this place in a mere sixteen months; doesnât need a bloody pen pal to encourage good behavior.Â
He knows that there is anger and violence rooted deep within him. On a good day, it simmers in his chest, a warm heat that lies dormant. On bad days, it burns so hot that he can feel the angry heat creep up into his throat. It makes the words that spill from his mouth cruel, and his calloused fingers twitch as he stomps his way over to the courtyard to beat the old punching bag until his shirt is soaked through with sweat and his knuckles are raw and bloody.
Not all bad days end with him wrapping his split knuckles with bandages from the infirmary. Sometimes they end with him in solitary and picking another inmateâs dried blood from underneath his fingernails. He hasnât had a bad day like that in over a year now.Â
If heâs being honest with himself, itâs only because he doesnât want to jeopardize his early release. Most of the other inmates know well enough now to leave Ghost be. The last inmate to piss Ghost off ended up in the infirmary with three broken ribs and two of his own teeth spat into his palm.Â
Poor sod ducks his head like a quivering dog every time he meets Ghostâs gaze now; surely wonât make the mistake of cutting in front of him in line at the cafeteria again. Ghost hasnât been outside of a prison in the last seventeen years but he canât imagine a civilian would try to swipe food from his plate or pick a fight with him just to see if they could win it.Â
So he lies through his teeth at every psych evaluation. Tells the doctors that the exercises they suggested are helping him manage his anger. He has a feeling they donât quite believe him, but he hasnât had an episode in over a year to justify their reservations. And since they donât question his ability to rehabilitate into civilian life, he tells himself that heâll be fine on the outside. All he has to do is keep to himself until Johnny gets released eight months after him. He just needs to behave for another year and he doesnât see how writing letters would make any difference.
He had thought that if he just ignored the letters they would eventually stop coming, but despite his obvious reluctance to partake in the program, the letters keep coming. Every last one in a pretty lilac envelope, notably staple free since the first one. He gleans little from her letters. Some young bird that signed up for this pen pal exchange. Sheâs twenty-one and has an interest in criminology.Â
Ghost decides that he hates her for it.Â
Each letter gets shoved under the bunk; most of the time he doesnât even bother to open and read them. He rolls his eyes when Soap whines and begs to trade pen pals with him. Apparently the poor mutt got stuck with some seventy-four year old retired veteran and he doesnât think it's fair that Ghost got paired with a young woman.Â
It isnât until he receives yet another letter from his unwanted pen pal, this time addressed from another country, that something finally makes him stop in his tracks. The bird is apparently studying abroad and when he opens the envelope, a flimsy polaroid floats down into his lap. He doesnât bother to read the newest letter and instead snatches the picture up between his thick fingers. He canât help the groan that escapes his lips the second he flips the polaroid picture over.
Ghost hardly even looks at the sweet smile and bright blue ocean behind her. No, thatâs not what catches his attention. His gaze immediately flicks down to the swell of her breasts taking up half of the image. What would be an innocent selfie to most might as well be a page ripped straight from a playboy magazine to Ghost. Clearly taken at the beach after a swim in the ocean, sweat and ocean water glistening on your skin, and Ghost can see the peaks of your nipples poking through your thin bikini top.Â
And fuck is that enough for him. He hasnât had a woman in, well, ever, and the guards keep confiscating his playboy magazines, so this will have to do. A low grunt escapes his chest as he reaches down to palm his cock thatâs now twitching to attention. He pauses to make sure Soap is still snoring, loudly , in the bunk above him before he reaches down to grope at his stiffening prick. Unzips himself from his prison issued track pants and palms at his stiffening cock over the thin fabric of his briefs.Â
He hisses between his teeth when he dips his hand under the band of his briefs and the rough skin of his palm tugs against the sensitive skin of his cock. Has to yank his hand back and spit into his palm before wrapping his thick fingers around the base of his cock. His other hand grips the picture of you between his fingertips as he pulls his foreskin back to reveal his swollen tip already leaking precum. It twitches in his hand as another glob of precum leaks down his prick.Â
He has half a mind to wake Soap up and shove his cock down the boyâs throat. If he fucks his throat deep enough he could pretend itâs the tight heat of your cunt clenching around his cock while he laps at one of the nipples peaking through your bikini.Â
Ghostâs fantasy is shattered the second the little shit sleeping above him wakes with a loud snort. He watches Soapâs head peek over the side of his bunk, pretty blue eyes clouded with sleep as his disheveled mohawk dangles over the metal bunk.Â
âYeh couldâve asked for a helping hand yaknow that, Ghost. Yeh know Iâdââ Soapâs voice cuts off abruptly, eyes narrowing on the polaroid clutched in Ghostâs hand and the other wrapped around his prick.
âWhatcha got there, Ghost?â Soap drawls, accent still thick from sleep.
âFuck off, Johnny,â Ghost grunts as he looks back down at your picture and gives his cock another stroke.
No use in deterring his mutt once his sight is set on a bone though. He feels the bunk shake and squeak as Soap scrambles down the ladder, the pervert already tenting his boxers as he crawls into Ghostâs bed.
âI said fuck off, Johnny.â Ghost grits his teeth and clutches your picture to his chest. Trying desperately to reimagine the swell of your tits pressed against his chest when you finally sink down on his cock. But Soap is relentless. His needy slut straddles Ghostâs thighs with a smirk on his face.Â
And fuck it, his boy is gagging for it, he might as well. He doesnât acknowledge Soapâs incessant teasing and instead fists a hand through his soft mohawk before shoving the bratâs head between his legs.Â
A low growl escapes his chest as the manâs lips wrap around his throbbing cock. And fuck, does his mouth feel good, tight and wet as his soft lips slide down Ghostâs length, throat swallowing around him. He loses himself in the feel of Soapâs practiced mouth, eyes only snapping open when Soap lets out a deep moan. Before he can even think, the palm of his hand is connecting with Soapâs cheek, hard . It draws a low moan from Soapâs throat which only serves to irritate Ghost more.
âShut up,â Ghost snaps and pushes Soapâs head down on his cock until he feels the man flinch and gag around his prick. Usually he loves to hear the whorish sounds that fall from his boyâs pretty lips but right now, heâs trying to imagine the way youâd cry out and beg as he inches his cock into the tight heat of your cunt. Ghost slaps his boy across the cheek again when Soap lets out a low growl and scrapes his teeth on the underside of his cock.Â
Soap seems to get the message, his moans and growls slowly quiet, swirling his tongue around Ghostâs swollen glands before sinking down until his nose is buried in Ghostâs pubic hair. Ghost loses himself in the wet heat of Soapâs throat once more, eyes rolling back as his head knocks back against his pillow, your pretty smile contorting itself into a cry as he bullies his cock into your cunt. His hips buck and bruise the back of Soapâs throat with every thrust while he dreams of fucking your pretty cunt full of his cum. He cums with a snarl on his lips and Johnny gagging around him. Holds Soap down on his cock as he reaches down to squeeze at his balls one last time before ripping the boy off his cock with a sputtering gasp.Â
Soap is immediately scrambling up the bed, grinding his prick against the swell of Ghostâs thigh.
âCâmon, Ghost, lemme see, just a peek I swear thatâs all I need,â Soap whines, frantically grinding his cock against Ghostâs leg. Ghost blinks as the bliss from his orgasm melts away, the bunk creaking from the force of Soapâs desperate thrusts, the man panting and grunting above him.Â
He languidly flips your photo between his fingers, any streak of possessiveness gone now, as long as itâll get his mutt to stop humping his leg faster so he can get some sleep.Â
âAh, fuck , Ghost, looks bonnie, donât she,â Soap pants as his eyes flit over your bikini photo, the grind of his hips losing their rhythm for a moment.Â
âBet âer ass hasnât been fucked yet,â Soap groans.
âMake âer take us both.â
âBet she tastes sweet.â
âPretty thing.â
Ghost barely registers Soapâs babbling above him, just grabs his ass and guides his hips against his thigh until Soap is cumming in his briefs with a low moan. When the boy finally calms down enough to catch his breath, he pulls the cum soaked briefs off of his boy and tosses them across the cell before pulling the mutt to his chest as they both doze off.
Ghost wakes annoyed, drenched in sweat and cum and Soap snoring loudly against his neck. The little shit has the audacity to grumble and pout when he makes Soap go sleep in his own bunk. When he hears Soapâs start to snore, he sits up, stealing Soapâs pencil and a spare sheet of paper. He starts scribbling words back to you. The first letter heâs responded to. His handwriting is ugly and near illegible, but he thinks you should be able to read most of it. He hangs his arms out of the bars of his cell and whistles at the guard stationed down the hall. Shoves his letter to you in the guardâs hand and grunts at him to send it to his bird.
The guard, Andrews, he thinks, scoffs snatching the letter from Ghostâs fingertips before banging on the cell door.
âMacTavish! You got a letter for your lovebird too?â
Ghost groans, already prepared for the bitchfest thatâs about to happen.
Soap awakes with a loud snort, head snapping up over the edge of his bunk and rubbing the sleep from his eyes.âÂ
âAye fuck off, you limp dick prick,â Soap growls and scrambles down the rickety bunk to press the length of his body against the cell bars as he curses the guard that taunted him. A litany of Scottish curses fall from his lips as Soap presses his forehead to the bars and goads the guard into approaching their shared cell. The little spitfire has himself so worked up heâs pacing the length of their cell and spewing insults at the guards on duty.
âI know yer playing favorites, Andrews. Think yer funny giving me some old bastard, donât yeh?â Soap hollers into the hallway and slams a fist against the bars of their cell, pressing his forehead against the bars once again, growling and swearing some more when Andrews takes a step back, barking out a harsh laugh. Ghost can practically see the metaphorical fur on Soapâs hind spike up at that, just a moment before he spits at the guardâs feet. Andrews, the scrawny little fucker, lurches forward to swat at Soapâs fists clenched around the bars of their cell with his baton.
âYou better back up and watch that mouth of yours Mactavish, or itâll be another two days in solitary for you,â Andrews snaps at Soap and shoots a knowing directly at Ghost.Â
And oh does Ghost hate when Soap gets sent to solitary. Canât use his boyâs holes when heâs locked up on the other side of the prison. The rough drag of his own fist just canât compete with the tight heat of Johnnyâs throat or arse. Especially now that heâs got a bird back home to think about. Ghost grips the back of Soapâs sweat soaked shirt and yanks him back from the cell bars, grunting at him to give it a fuck rest.Â
Ghost retreats to his bunk when Soap finally cools off, watching as Soap flops down onto the chair at their shared desk and starts to angrily scribble in his journal, occasionally grumbling to himself under his breath. He settles back against his pillow, content with thinking about his new bird on the outside until the guards release them for breakfast. He almost feels bad about not writing to you sooner. Poor girl tired of her letters going unanswered, you really were just begging for his attention when you sent a violent inmate a photo of your tits now, werenât you?
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You put a target on your back
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the crooks are out, and the streets are grey
aka a prison pen pal au
HUUUUGE fucking thank you to @ceilidho for all of the writing advice and beta reading this and just generally being a big motivation and indulging in all of my random cod thoughts lol
this is incredibly self-indulgent. tags will be updated accordingly with a warning on each chapter when necessary. i'm a big fan of ghoap being perverted violent freaks if you couldn't tell.
thanks for reading besties. sorry there isn't any direct reader x ghost interaction yet. i promise it's coming.
you can also find me on twitter
[cw implied sexual harassment, future dubcon, explicit sexual content] 18+ MDNI
AO3
Part 1
It starts with a little slip of paper shoved under the bars of his shared cell with Soap.Â
An official notice to inform inmates of the start of a new pen pal program the following week. Some rehabilitative bullshit about encouraging good behavior and rehabilitating prisoners on track to be released within the next few years. Ghost canât help but roll his eyes as he crumples up the slip of paper and makes his way to the prison yard. Doesnât give it another thought.Â
That is until he receives a letter. Packaged in a little envelope with the prettiest handwriting heâs ever seen, addressed to the one and only Simon V. Riley: Inmate #634. The envelope had been torn open with a letter opener, read by prison staff, and searched for contraband, of course, before it made its way through the slot of his cell door. It comes in a lilac envelope and it's even adorned with a pretty little heart right next to his name scrawled in cursive.Â
Ghost shoves the pastry he swiped in the cafeteria from a new inmate into his mouth as he rips open the letter with mild interest. He lets out a snort when he sees that the staple holding the pages of the letter together was ripped out by whatever guard had gotten stuck with mail duty today. He knows that youâll have already received an angry voicemail from the prison advising you that all mail to inmates must be paperclip and staple free upon arrival.Â
He glances over the letter with disinterest, a couple paragraphs introducing yourself and one detailing your excitement about joining the program. He only skims his way to the second page where you start to ask him questions about himself before heâs crumpling up the pages to shove under his bunk. Heâll be free of this place in a mere sixteen months; doesnât need a bloody pen pal to encourage good behavior.Â
He knows that there is anger and violence rooted deep within him. On a good day, it simmers in his chest, a warm heat that lies dormant. On bad days, it burns so hot that he can feel the angry heat creep up into his throat. It makes the words that spill from his mouth cruel, and his calloused fingers twitch as he stomps his way over to the courtyard to beat the old punching bag until his shirt is soaked through with sweat and his knuckles are raw and bloody.
Not all bad days end with him wrapping his split knuckles with bandages from the infirmary. Sometimes they end with him in solitary and picking another inmateâs dried blood from underneath his fingernails. He hasnât had a bad day like that in over a year now.Â
If heâs being honest with himself, itâs only because he doesnât want to jeopardize his early release. Most of the other inmates know well enough now to leave Ghost be. The last inmate to piss Ghost off ended up in the infirmary with three broken ribs and two of his own teeth spat into his palm.Â
Poor sod ducks his head like a quivering dog every time he meets Ghostâs gaze now; surely wonât make the mistake of cutting in front of him in line at the cafeteria again. Ghost hasnât been outside of a prison in the last seventeen years but he canât imagine a civilian would try to swipe food from his plate or pick a fight with him just to see if they could win it.Â
So he lies through his teeth at every psych evaluation. Tells the doctors that the exercises they suggested are helping him manage his anger. He has a feeling they donât quite believe him, but he hasnât had an episode in over a year to justify their reservations. And since they donât question his ability to rehabilitate into civilian life, he tells himself that heâll be fine on the outside. All he has to do is keep to himself until Johnny gets released eight months after him. He just needs to behave for another year and he doesnât see how writing letters would make any difference.
He had thought that if he just ignored the letters they would eventually stop coming, but despite his obvious reluctance to partake in the program, the letters keep coming. Every last one in a pretty lilac envelope, notably staple free since the first one. He gleans little from her letters. Some young bird that signed up for this pen pal exchange. Sheâs twenty-one and has an interest in criminology.Â
Ghost decides that he hates her for it.Â
Each letter gets shoved under the bunk; most of the time he doesnât even bother to open and read them. He rolls his eyes when Soap whines and begs to trade pen pals with him. Apparently the poor mutt got stuck with some seventy-four year old retired veteran and he doesnât think it's fair that Ghost got paired with a young woman.Â
It isnât until he receives yet another letter from his unwanted pen pal, this time addressed from another country, that something finally makes him stop in his tracks. The bird is apparently studying abroad and when he opens the envelope, a flimsy polaroid floats down into his lap. He doesnât bother to read the newest letter and instead snatches the picture up between his thick fingers. He canât help the groan that escapes his lips the second he flips the polaroid picture over.
Ghost hardly even looks at the sweet smile and bright blue ocean behind her. No, thatâs not what catches his attention. His gaze immediately flicks down to the swell of her breasts taking up half of the image. What would be an innocent selfie to most might as well be a page ripped straight from a playboy magazine to Ghost. Clearly taken at the beach after a swim in the ocean, sweat and ocean water glistening on your skin, and Ghost can see the peaks of your nipples poking through your thin bikini top.Â
And fuck is that enough for him. He hasnât had a woman in, well, ever, and the guards keep confiscating his playboy magazines, so this will have to do. A low grunt escapes his chest as he reaches down to palm his cock thatâs now twitching to attention. He pauses to make sure Soap is still snoring, loudly , in the bunk above him before he reaches down to grope at his stiffening prick. Unzips himself from his prison issued track pants and palms at his stiffening cock over the thin fabric of his briefs.Â
He hisses between his teeth when he dips his hand under the band of his briefs and the rough skin of his palm tugs against the sensitive skin of his cock. Has to yank his hand back and spit into his palm before wrapping his thick fingers around the base of his cock. His other hand grips the picture of you between his fingertips as he pulls his foreskin back to reveal his swollen tip already leaking precum. It twitches in his hand as another glob of precum leaks down his prick.Â
He has half a mind to wake Soap up and shove his cock down the boyâs throat. If he fucks his throat deep enough he could pretend itâs the tight heat of your cunt clenching around his cock while he laps at one of the nipples peaking through your bikini.Â
Ghostâs fantasy is shattered the second the little shit sleeping above him wakes with a loud snort. He watches Soapâs head peek over the side of his bunk, pretty blue eyes clouded with sleep as his disheveled mohawk dangles over the metal bunk.Â
âYeh couldâve asked for a helping hand yaknow that, Ghost. Yeh know Iâdââ Soapâs voice cuts off abruptly, eyes narrowing on the polaroid clutched in Ghostâs hand and the other wrapped around his prick.
âWhatcha got there, Ghost?â Soap drawls, accent still thick from sleep.
âFuck off, Johnny,â Ghost grunts as he looks back down at your picture and gives his cock another stroke.
No use in deterring his mutt once his sight is set on a bone though. He feels the bunk shake and squeak as Soap scrambles down the ladder, the pervert already tenting his boxers as he crawls into Ghostâs bed.
âI said fuck off, Johnny.â Ghost grits his teeth and clutches your picture to his chest. Trying desperately to reimagine the swell of your tits pressed against his chest when you finally sink down on his cock. But Soap is relentless. His needy slut straddles Ghostâs thighs with a smirk on his face.Â
And fuck it, his boy is gagging for it, he might as well. He doesnât acknowledge Soapâs incessant teasing and instead fists a hand through his soft mohawk before shoving the bratâs head between his legs.Â
A low growl escapes his chest as the manâs lips wrap around his throbbing cock. And fuck, does his mouth feel good, tight and wet as his soft lips slide down Ghostâs length, throat swallowing around him. He loses himself in the feel of Soapâs practiced mouth, eyes only snapping open when Soap lets out a deep moan. Before he can even think, the palm of his hand is connecting with Soapâs cheek, hard . It draws a low moan from Soapâs throat which only serves to irritate Ghost more.
âShut up,â Ghost snaps and pushes Soapâs head down on his cock until he feels the man flinch and gag around his prick. Usually he loves to hear the whorish sounds that fall from his boyâs pretty lips but right now, heâs trying to imagine the way youâd cry out and beg as he inches his cock into the tight heat of your cunt. Ghost slaps his boy across the cheek again when Soap lets out a low growl and scrapes his teeth on the underside of his cock.Â
Soap seems to get the message, his moans and growls slowly quiet, swirling his tongue around Ghostâs swollen glands before sinking down until his nose is buried in Ghostâs pubic hair. Ghost loses himself in the wet heat of Soapâs throat once more, eyes rolling back as his head knocks back against his pillow, your pretty smile contorting itself into a cry as he bullies his cock into your cunt. His hips buck and bruise the back of Soapâs throat with every thrust while he dreams of fucking your pretty cunt full of his cum. He cums with a snarl on his lips and Johnny gagging around him. Holds Soap down on his cock as he reaches down to squeeze at his balls one last time before ripping the boy off his cock with a sputtering gasp.Â
Soap is immediately scrambling up the bed, grinding his prick against the swell of Ghostâs thigh.
âCâmon, Ghost, lemme see, just a peek I swear thatâs all I need,â Soap whines, frantically grinding his cock against Ghostâs leg. Ghost blinks as the bliss from his orgasm melts away, the bunk creaking from the force of Soapâs desperate thrusts, the man panting and grunting above him.Â
He languidly flips your photo between his fingers, any streak of possessiveness gone now, as long as itâll get his mutt to stop humping his leg faster so he can get some sleep.Â
âAh, fuck , Ghost, looks bonnie, donât she,â Soap pants as his eyes flit over your bikini photo, the grind of his hips losing their rhythm for a moment.Â
âBet âer ass hasnât been fucked yet,â Soap groans.
âMake âer take us both.â
âBet she tastes sweet.â
âPretty thing.â
Ghost barely registers Soapâs babbling above him, just grabs his ass and guides his hips against his thigh until Soap is cumming in his briefs with a low moan. When the boy finally calms down enough to catch his breath, he pulls the cum soaked briefs off of his boy and tosses them across the cell before pulling the mutt to his chest as they both doze off.
Ghost wakes annoyed, drenched in sweat and cum and Soap snoring loudly against his neck. The little shit has the audacity to grumble and pout when he makes Soap go sleep in his own bunk. When he hears Soapâs start to snore, he sits up, stealing Soapâs pencil and a spare sheet of paper. He starts scribbling words back to you. The first letter heâs responded to. His handwriting is ugly and near illegible, but he thinks you should be able to read most of it. He hangs his arms out of the bars of his cell and whistles at the guard stationed down the hall. Shoves his letter to you in the guardâs hand and grunts at him to send it to his bird.
The guard, Andrews, he thinks, scoffs snatching the letter from Ghostâs fingertips before banging on the cell door.
âMacTavish! You got a letter for your lovebird too?â
Ghost groans, already prepared for the bitchfest thatâs about to happen.
Soap awakes with a loud snort, head snapping up over the edge of his bunk and rubbing the sleep from his eyes.âÂ
âAye fuck off, you limp dick prick,â Soap growls and scrambles down the rickety bunk to press the length of his body against the cell bars as he curses the guard that taunted him. A litany of Scottish curses fall from his lips as Soap presses his forehead to the bars and goads the guard into approaching their shared cell. The little spitfire has himself so worked up heâs pacing the length of their cell and spewing insults at the guards on duty.
âI know yer playing favorites, Andrews. Think yer funny giving me some old bastard, donât yeh?â Soap hollers into the hallway and slams a fist against the bars of their cell, pressing his forehead against the bars once again, growling and swearing some more when Andrews takes a step back, barking out a harsh laugh. Ghost can practically see the metaphorical fur on Soapâs hind spike up at that, just a moment before he spits at the guardâs feet. Andrews, the scrawny little fucker, lurches forward to swat at Soapâs fists clenched around the bars of their cell with his baton.
âYou better back up and watch that mouth of yours Mactavish, or itâll be another two days in solitary for you,â Andrews snaps at Soap and shoots a knowing directly at Ghost.Â
And oh does Ghost hate when Soap gets sent to solitary. Canât use his boyâs holes when heâs locked up on the other side of the prison. The rough drag of his own fist just canât compete with the tight heat of Johnnyâs throat or arse. Especially now that heâs got a bird back home to think about. Ghost grips the back of Soapâs sweat soaked shirt and yanks him back from the cell bars, grunting at him to give it a fuck rest.Â
Ghost retreats to his bunk when Soap finally cools off, watching as Soap flops down onto the chair at their shared desk and starts to angrily scribble in his journal, occasionally grumbling to himself under his breath. He settles back against his pillow, content with thinking about his new bird on the outside until the guards release them for breakfast. He almost feels bad about not writing to you sooner. Poor girl tired of her letters going unanswered, you really were just begging for his attention when you sent a violent inmate a photo of your tits now, werenât you?
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take me home, country road
[ao3]
You have nothing on your person apart from a hastily packed suitcase and the dress you came into town wearing, on the run from trouble back home. Too bad John's missing a bride that matches your description.
Or: the 1800s (mistaken) mail order bride au (chapter 14)
first chapter >> last chapter
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Itâs you for once crawling over him in the dead of night and stroking your hand down the side of his face.
Any other night, you would be able to brush off the urge to curl yourself around him and press your lips into the bristly corner of his jaw, but after a long day of waiting and worrying, and a weekâs worth of pent up stress and guilt, you have no choice but to succumb to your urges. Itâs burrowed so deep inside of you that itâs almost a base need now. You need to be as close to him as possible.
John coaxes you to bed once you finish bandaging his hands. Itâs not meant presumptively; you can tell from the deep bags under his eyes that he needs sleep more than anything.Â
For a spell, you sleep with the comfort of your husband by your side. After a week of keeping to your side of the bed, body stiff to keep from turning over in your sleep and curling up into hisâcommitted, in your ire, to punishing both him and yourselfâyou relish the opportunity to snuggle up under his arm.Â
The ache between your legs only becomes unmanageable somewhere around the middle of the night. You wake in a daze, sweating profusely, cheek pressed to a hard chest that rises and falls with his breaths. It takes a moment for the fog to clear, but once it does you realize that youâve rolled on top of him, legs spread on either side of a thick thigh and your sex pressed tight to the muscle, your hips undulating.Â
Your lips part enough for your tongue to slip out and wet them. Another wave of need washes over you, making your breath come out ragged. Your vision is still spotty, sleep half-crusted into the folds of you, and with the room still ensconced in darkness, no amount of blinking ever clears it out.Â
The air around you feels hot and humid; your skin sticks to his when you lift your head up, your face damp with sweat. Johnâs hand is loose at your bottom, curved under a cheek to hold you to him. The other is nestled against the small of your back. Your shift is drawn up around your waist, likely riding up when you crawled over your husband in the middle of the night, but it means that only the thin fabric of your underwear is pressed against Johnâs thigh. Every roll of your hips rubs your clit in just the right way.Â
You pant against his chest when you roll your hips again. Youâd be humiliated if he woke up to see you humping his leg like a puppy, but you can hardly control yourself. In the month since marrying him, youâve grown accustomed to a certain amount of relief at your husbandâs hands, and to suddenly lose that in one fell swoop has left you, for lack of a better word, frustrated.Â
âHmmâŚdarlinââŚâ John suddenly groans, hand gripping into the flesh of your backside and grinding your sex down against his leg.Â
You still at the sound of his voice, biting back your moan when he shifts his thigh and presses it up into you. He wakes gradually, blinking down at you when you peer up at him. The blood rushes under your cheeks, growing hot when he blinks at you again slowly, realization unfurling behind his eyes like a lotus flower blooming under moonlight.Â
âIâm sorry, Iâm justâŚâ you whisper, choking back a moan again when his hand slides down your bottom and in between your legs, fingers rubbing against the wet seam of your cunt.
John chuckles, the sound raspy with sleep. âChrist, honey, youâre wetâŚshouldâve told me you needed a good fucking.â
âYou n-needed to sleep,â you say, gasping into his chest when John strokes his fingers up and down between your thighs. The sensation is mildly dulled by the fabric covering your center, but his prodding fingers make you jolt anyway.Â
âDarlinâ, If Iâd known, I never wouldâve let you go to bed wanting.â
He maneuvers you onto your side for long enough to let him draw your underwear down your legs before rolling over onto his back again and balancing you over his lap. With your knees on either side of his hips, your cunt is spread wide open for his gaze, the soft, dewy folds parting to expose your slick center.Â
Words are silken in your head and they slide from side to side as you watch John lift his hips and reach down to pull himself out. He moves with a practiced ease, but the flush high on his cheeks betrays his eagerness. You run your hands through the pelt on his chest as you stare at the glistening tip of his member poking out the top of his grip.Â
âWeâve never done this,â you remark, almost a casual observation. Despite your heart beating rabbit-quick, the words arenât caught behind your tongue. Instead, John's presence acts like a balm, nervousness bleeding away to anticipation.Â
âFirst time for everything, isnât there?â
âI suppose,â you murmur, eyes locked on the turgid length that he notches against your entrance, impaling you on it so slowly that it almost doesnât register at first.Â
You feel the stretch when he bottoms out though. The last inch comes all at once, winding you. It is a frightening, soaring sensation; a blunt intrusion that takes you to another place. No pleasantries this time because youâre an old hat at this now, you suspect, but still you gasp when his girth stretches you beyond what you recalled.Â
âFuckâŚthere it is,â John grunts, transferring his hands to your waist. âChrist, tightened right up since we last made love, didnât you, sweetheart?â
His words, while crass, hold true. You can feel every throbbing inch of him.
âItâs not likeââ you pant, squeezing your eyes shut for a moment, sweat beading around your hairline. âI wasnât about to, ahâŚÂ fool around with anybody else.â
ââCourse you wouldnât, darlinâ,â he croons, stroking his hand up your side. âWe just had a little spat, is all. I know youâre my good girl.â
His words make you clench up tight, drawing a rumbling groan out of him.Â
âN-no, Iâm not a goodâŚâIâm justâŚit just wouldnât be right. Weâre married. IâdâIâd neverâŚâ The words come out shaky, punched out because he takes that moment to help guide you up, nearly pulling out of you completely before bringing you back down.
âKnew you were my good girl soon as I saw you,â John muses, his voice low and husky, hands gripped tight at your waist. âCouldnât wait to make you mine. Wasnât even supposed to marry you right awayâthought weâd get to know each other a bit, but thenââ
âYouâoh, unfâyou dragged me to the courthouse.â
He smiles roguishly. âI couldnât let you go after I saw you. Had to make you mine, darlinâ.â
You ride him carefully at first, unsure of yourself.Â
Itâs strenuous work taking his cock this way, doing all the heavy lifting yourself. You almost think youâd fight him if you werenât lost in pleasure, eyes defocusing as you stare down at him. Each time you impale yourself on his length, your breath hitches out of you. A sharp oh, oh, oh; chasing something elusive that wants you after it.Â
When your thighs feel strained to the point of burning, you beg him to hurry up. Enough, you blubber, the word almost subsumed into a guttural moan. That makes him grit his teeth, a dark look coming over his face. You hiccup when he plants his feet against the bed and his hips buck up into you, the squelch of your own cunt making your fingers dig into his chest hair.Â
All you can do is take it, your hands planted on his chest and jaw dropping open on a moan that you canât hold back.Â
Tears clumping your eyelashes together, a single drop landing in the middle of Johnâs chest when he forces you all the way down on his cock and holds you there, jiggling the pearl at the apex of your sex with his thumb until you almost struggle to pull away. He always has to fight you through an orgasm, the stubborn thing trapped behind your teeth, begging him to use you how he wants.Â
When it hits you though, itâs sharp and hot. It makes you reel backwards, your control slipping out of your grasp so suddenly that the sharp buck of his hips nearly knocks you clean off. He holds you down tight though, keeping you impaled on his shaft.Â
âThere we go,â John rasps. âThat wasnât so hard, huh?â
After making you come, he rolls you over until your back is pressed against the bed and he hovers over you, nestled between your thighs. He drops down until his face is buried in your neck, a big arm wedging under your back and hooking over your shoulder, the other sliding under your low back and clutching your waist. When he thrusts into you, you realize with a start that he has you locked to his chest. You arenât going anywhere.Â
âChrist, keep squirming like that,â John growls into your neck, sucking at the sweaty patch of skin between your neck and shoulder.Â
Each thrust knocks the air out of you. Where your skin isnât slick with sweat, you itch. Overwhelmed by touch and taste. Teeth clacking when his hips speed up, driven into a frenzy by his own urge to come. And again, thereâs nowhere for you to run, not with his arms wound tight around you, all of his strength concentrated on holding you to his chest. You donât think anyone could pry him off you.Â
âIâm gonnaâIâm gonnaââ you gasp, feeling it brewing under your skin again. The feeling makes you panicky this time though. Heâs made you come plenty of times, but never in such quick succession.Â
The pitch of your moans goes breathy and high, rising to nearly a caterwaul.Â
He licks into the shell of your ear. âGot a little tighter there, sweetheart. Gonna give me another?â Â
You canât answer him. Only intelligible babbling, a high, reedy plea whistled through your teeth. Your hands rake down his back, scoring red lines into the skin, and clutching helplessly, trying to both pull him closer and push him away. Itâs almost too much, too soon. Â
âAlmost there, almost there,â he pants, the sweat on his brow dripping down onto your face. It nearly drips into your eye. You wish heâd pull back and kiss you, sooth the panicked staccato of your heart, but heâs lost in his own need, bucking into you like a beast. âCâmon, give me it, sweetheart. Be a good girl.âÂ
Youâre on the precipice of it, hanging on with clawed hands dug into the muscle of his back. In danger of tipping over, a gale at your back. The intensity frightens you though. You cling to him like digging your hands into the earth to root you in place.Â
Johnâs arms tighten around you as he nears his end. You feel compressed, choked, only a warm slippery thing for him to plant his seed in.Â
His breath is hot in your ear when he rasps, âWhere the fuck are your manners, darlinâ? I said, give me it.â
Then he arches into it, spine going stiff when he empties himself into your cunt. His arms squeeze all the air out of your lungs. You must come more than once, a record, because by the time he pulls out of you, you practically sink into the bed, sapped of energy. Not enough strength to even twitch a finger.Â
John collapses onto the bed beside you, tugging you into his chest. It feels so intimate, lying on your side with a leg draped over Johnâs hip. You shiver when the sweat begins to cool.Â
He drags a finger through your puffy, raw sex from the back, scooping up his essence with two fingers. You go cross-eyed when he pushes it back into you, hissing and pushing against his shoulders, trying to dislodge him from between your legs. John doesnât budge; his eyes barely even flick down to meet yours as he pushes more of his spend back into your hole.Â
Your chest goes tight at that.Â
After, he sits you upright with your back to his chest and holds a glass of water up to your lips, making you drink until it dribbles down your chest. A big hand rests on your belly.Â
âWhy do you like touching there?â you ask, taking another sip.
âThis is where my babe will sit,â he says, and you choke on your water, coughing until your lungs are clear and your eyes water. âSoon, with any luck.â
âYou sure know what you want,â you wheeze, eyes still watering from your coughing fit.
He presses a kiss into your hair. âThat I do.â
Two days later, John wakes you up with the news that an incident on a farm a few towns over will take him from you for the next few days.
You frown into your oatmeal. âWhy so long?â
He sits at the table across from you with his chair pushed out, scraping off the mud caked on his boots with a dry brush. He sucks his cheek when you ask that question.Â
âBit unpleasant to bother you with the specifics, darlinâ, but, uhâŚsuffice it to say that itâs not something we can wrap up in just one day.â
âDid someone die?â you ask bluntly.Â
John looks over at you from the corner of his eye, unimpressed. âAs a matter of fact, yes.â
âWas it violent?â
âJesus Christ, woman, you donât need to go poking your nose into all of that.â
You roll your eyes at that. If he knew even a fraction of the things youâve seen, he wouldnât be nearly so askance at the thought of upsetting your delicate constitution. âBut itâll keep you there for some time?â
He nods. âAt least a couple days. Maybe more. Thereâs matters to be dealt with, arrests to be madeâŚwonât be easy work.â
âIs Simon accompanying you?â
âBoth him and Kyle. Iâm leaving Soap behind to keep the peace.â
âSo youâre expecting to come back to the town in complete disarray then?â
John laughs at that, a big bellowing sound that makes you flinch and then warms your belly with delight.Â
Summer is well on its way to being flush with itself now. Katydids in the bushes outside whistle and burr, a raspy, percussive sound. Long strands of high cirrus clouds stretch across the clear blue sky. Spiders weave thick webs into the corners of the windows on the outside of the house, thin, filamentous strands of silk woven over each other until itâs a dense, compact web. Even the sound of the bees buzzing through the air sets you at ease.Â
The sound of your husbandâs laughter seems to carry all of that in it, all of the fat, flushed joy of summertime.Â
âI might need a list of what to take care of around the house while youâre gone. Iâve neverâŚIâve never managed a house on my own before,â you say into your oatmeal, taking another bite. Â
You donât know why it embarrasses you to admit that. John may not know about your previous circumstances just yetâyouâve never divulged stories of your time working at the estate or the years you spent living with your aunt and uncleâbut he must certainly have guessed by now that you didnât own property back east.Â
âThe boys and I arenât heading out from here; gotta meet them in town to settle a couple of things first, but that wouldnât take too long.â He takes a long sip of coffee before continuing. âPlanned on asking Soap to check on you a couple times while Iâm gone. He could help with the chores.â
Your irritation flares up at that. You put down your spoon sharply, the metal clanging against the porcelain bowl. âDo you still think Iâm going to run away?â
He cocks an eyebrow at that, but doesnât respond.
âSo nothingâs changed then, even after Iâve already apologized. You still donât trust me,â you sigh, your appetite suddenly gone. You push the bowl away from you, taking a sip of coffee instead.Â
John sighs. You glance down at his hands instead of looking up into his eyes. His hands are still lightly ink-stained from reading the paper. The ink imprints onto your hand when he pulls his chair in and reaches across the table to lace your fingers together.Â
âYou might just see my concern for what it is, instead of fighting me at every turn,â he drawls.Â
âSuppose I should say thank you then. I really appreciate being kept under lock and key,â you deadpan.
âOh, and I suppose youâve done so much to prove that youâre the staying type?â he teases.
âIâm still here, arenât I?â
âBy my count, youâve tried to run off twice. You sayinâ you wonât go for three?â
You stay mulishly silent, again going cold instead of deigning to have a conversation with the man. Your hand pulls from his grasp when you go to clean the table, taking the plates with you to the sink to wash. The brisk scrub and rinse betrays your mood, your shoulders tense with displeasure. You feel his gaze heavy on you from where he still sits at the table.Â
John catches you before you have a chance to skitter off, hooking an arm around your waist to reel you in.Â
âI never get off easy with you, do I?â he murmurs.Â
You harrumph, scrunching your nose when he nuzzles into the side of your head. Squawking when he plants a wet kiss there too.Â
John sees you off at the door with a kiss to your lips and then one to your forehead. His farewell kiss always seems to linger, as though he were reluctant for it to ever end. A disconcerting ache in your belly follows his departure. More than anything, you wish heâd turn back around and come home. Instead, youâre forced to bite your tongue and watch him leave because there are things more important than your desperate, cloying need for attention from a man that you once swore youâd run away from if given half a chance.
Now, as you stare at the shadow of him disappearing beyond the horizon, you can barely force your feet to take you back into the house.
The ache is a perturbing reminder of the seeds of trust and affection youâve planted here. Now, theyâve begun to sprout, the buds opening up to tender, fragrant flowers. Those are the thoughts that occupy your mind when you go into the garden to harvest the lettuce heads and tomatoes. You think about all of this while staring down into the garden that John started so very long ago and now you tend. The earth here yields in abundance, but it requires a sure hand, and it rewards your joint efforts with a harvest thatâll last you through the winter if properly cultivated.Â
Part of you anticipates company, waiting for Kate or Soap to come down the path on horseback, but when hours pass and neither show up, you have to admit to yourself that perhaps John hasnât left a guardian to watch over you this time. Your heart trips over itself at the thought.
Trust is a precious, easily spoiled gift. You know it is not given lightly, and youâve not put in the effort to engender it in recent weeks. You wonder if John wrestled with the decision to leave you alone, weighing your hurt feelings against the assurance of keeping you at home and found the latter wanting for once.Â
You spend the better part of the morning gardening and cleaning. It muffles the longing. Itâs entirely antithetical to the way you waited for John during the train robbery, but the different circumstances have you less on edge. The situation doesnât seem as precarious. Never free of trouble, of course, but John hadnât seemed too worried at breakfast, so you tell yourself that you shouldnât worry either.
In fact, finding some way to occupy yourself proves the greater challenge. You hadnât realized how much youâd grown to expect the company of others. The silence swells to a bubble that you itch to burst.Â
It takes a great deal of courage to talk yourself into riding Buttercup into town. You hold the reins so tight that your knuckles ache when you finally let go. Still, when the sun-bleached town comes into view and you no longer need to swat repeatedly at the horseflies pestering you, you celebrate the little victory.Â
You find Kate in the saloon enjoying a little brandy with lunch. Her eyes crinkle at the sight of you.Â
âDidnât expect to see you here so soon,â she says when you take a seat across from her.Â
âI couldnât clean the house for a third time,â you shrug.Â
Itâs not an exaggeration. You spent the better part of the morning yesterday scrubbing the floors and sweeping the leaves and mud from the foyer, paying special attention to the caked mud on the sill, where John has a habit of wiping off his boots. Youâll have to remember to pick up a mat for the porch on the way back home.Â
âYou just missed my company so?â Kate teases.
You roll your eyes. âWho else do I have to talk to?â
âWell, donât flatter me too much.â
âAnywayâno one, wellâŚno one understands meâŚquite the same.â You speak evasively because youâre still too much of a coward to just say it outright. Nevertheless, Kate understands, and nods with a gleam in her eye that says as much.Â
âProbably best to keep it that way.â
You donât know why her words make your chest ache. For a beat, you keep silent, ordering a drink and a small meal for yourself from a passing waiter.Â
âIâve consideredâŚtelling John,â you start, a hesitant thread in your voice begging to be unraveled.Â
Kate glances up at that. âWhy would you do something like that?â
âI thought that maybeâŚwell, maybe he might understandâŚif I explained the circumstances to him.âÂ
Her hand stills over her glass, face screwed up like sheâs tasted something particularly unpleasant. âSeems like a dangerous game to playârisking your freedom on a maybe. Itâs better to keep private matters just that. Private.â
Worry makes you wring your hands under the table. âYou think heâd turn me in if he knew?â
Kate shrugs. âJohnâs a good man. Heâs a good sheriff too. Itâs a risky gambit. I canât imagine what the trade off would beâI happened to find out by chance, but if you have the option to let buried dogs lie, I would take it.â
âIsnât it âlet sleeping dogs lieâ?â
Her smile is not cruel, but it cuts. âNot in this case, hun. âFraid we both know that.â
âOh,â you murmur.Â
Her lack of faith leaves you at a loss. It takes you so long to come to terms with it that by the time you open your mouth again, youâre halfway back to the shop, following her step for step. Dark clouds loom ominously off in the distance, just far enough away that you donât expect for them to reach town for another hour or so, but the sight of them compounds the somber mood youâve fallen into since Kateâs words.Â
You donât bring up the subject again until the rain begins to fall outside, slate grey like a gauzy veil. From the window, you peer down the street towards where Buttercup stands under the roof of the sheriffâs office, shielded from the rain. You stare morosely at the dirt ground; the rain will make walking anywhere after a hassle.
Kate must notice the general air of malcontent hovering around you because she apologizes to you when the ensuing silence from the morningâs conversation becomes unbearable. âNow, I donât want you to think I hold John in poor esteem, hun. Heâs a good man; I have no reason to think heâd ever turn you in for putting down the man that tried toâŚwell, the man that tried to do you harm. I just donât want you to regret your decision if Iâm wrong.â
You shrug, bad mood not in the least assuaged. âItâs fine. It was a foolish idea. Why invite trouble when Iâve escaped it thus far?â
She doesnât seem reassured at that. If anything, her scowl deepens. Instead of addressing it, you offer to help clean the shop, sweeping the back room and dusting the shelves. There are items on the shelves that look like they havenât been touched in years, and you wonder whether Kate holds onto things after theyâve outlived their usefulness out of habit or an unwillingness to part with them. Then you shake your head of the thought. It shouldnât matter to you.Â
Around midafternoon, a few trappers come in to stock up on supplies and spend the better part of an hour talking to Kate. You flatten your lips together to keep from cursing them out for tracking in mud and rain with them, but they studiously avoid looking at you.Â
âMorning, Mrs. Price,â one of them says, still keeping their gaze politely trained on the floor.Â
You roll your eyes internally. Not surprising that news would spread eventually of Johnâs new wife.Â
The conversation is of little interest to you, but you eavesdrop anyway because the rain hasnât relented yet and thereâs little else to do. Most of their conversation goes over your head, but some parts stick out. They tell her about a mutual acquaintance waylaid by a mountain slide up north forcing them to take another route home, and another whoâd recently perished of consumption. Kate seems particularly upset by that, the lines around her mouth more pronounced than ever when she offers her condolences.Â
They stay until the rain lets up and then say their goodbyes before heading out.Â
âGâday, Mrs. Price,â the same one says to you before departing.Â
You smile bemusedly at the door. âI donât suppose Iâve met either of them before and donât remember it?â
Kate shakes her head. âUnlikely. Alex and Frank spend most of their time up north hunting and fur trapping. One of them has a cousin in town, but they visit only seldomly. Itâs been a year or so since I last saw either of them.â
âThen howâd they know who I am?â
âWell, I imagine they probably read about it.â
âRead about it?â you repeat confusedly.Â
âIn the paper. The county sheriff got hitchedâof course itâd be a story.â
That unnerves you. Somehow, you thought you might fold into history like youâd always been there, but a marriage announcement in a newspaper punctuates the present. Your only reassurance is that the story ran over a month ago and therefore of little interest to anyone these days, at least from what Kate tells you; overshadowed by subsequent issues and stories. Old news, she tells you.
âWhatâs new news then?â
She ponders that for a bit. âAside from what Frank mentioned? HmâŚFarmer Shepherdâs ewe had a lamb the other night.âÂ
âWhoâs that?â
âA farmer, I reckon.â
You deadpan. âFunny.â
She laughs at that, a husky, amber sound. âShepherdâs got a farm in the next town over. Kyle and I always stop to buy mutton whenever weâre in town.â
âOh, thatâs right, you were just there recently. Do you visit that often?â
âFrom time to time,â she says, vague enough to pique your interest.
âMust be good mutton.â
She snorts. âHeâs not as good a butcher as Simon, but heâs alright. Itâs worth stopping by. I wouldnât call it a reason to make the journey though.â Â
âThen why do you go?â
She smiles a bit wistfully. âI haveâŚa friend in town. Itâs worth the trek.â
âOh. AâŚÂ male friend?âÂ
You say the word tentatively, gauging her reaction in case youâve overstepped. Usually you wouldnât be so inquisitive. In fact, youâve made it a habit to know as little about the people you keep company with as possible. But Kate is different. This place is different. Time in this town moves at a slower pace, and it swells in the moments where it seems endless. It makes you talk slower, chew the fat. You spend so much time around these people that it almost feels like a lifetime has passed in their presence. You feel close enough these days that asking doesnât feel as forbidden as it used to.
âNo. Not a man.âÂ
It could mean nothing at all, but her words have just enough inflection in them that you can't help but meet her gaze.Â
âA woman?â you ask, caught between embarrassment at having to ask and curiosity.Â
She nods, her smile strained.Â
âOh,â you say dumbly.Â
You canât really think of what else to say in response to that revelation, but leaving it like that also feels wrong. Itâs nothing you havenât heard whisperings of before. Boston marriages. Sentimental friends. Spinsters cohabitating in virtuous friendship. Itâs perhaps only shocking to finally put a face to the rumors.Â
âWell, thatâs nice,â you say after another awkward pause. Kate rolls her eyes and her nonchalance vexes you. âWhat? It is!â
âYou donât need to get all twisted up. It is what it is. Thereâs no need to go making a fuss about it.â
You frown at that. âI would never.â Then something dawns on you. âHave other people made a fuss before?â
ââŚA few,â she answers, looking troubled when old memories flicker behind her eyelids. âA long time ago, in another place, but when IâŚwell, I trusted more. Thereâs no one that could make a fuss about it these days.â
âBut surely Kyle knows? He accompanied you to town last time.â
âKyle does not know.â
âThen why tell me?â you ask, dumbfounded.Â
She holds you in her gaze for a few moments at that question, then comes out from behind the counter where her notebook still lies open, a thin strip of fabric acting as a bookmark.Â
âYou have your secrets and I have mine,â Kate says, leaning back against the counter and clasping her hands loosely in front of her. âThe same reason I wonât tell John what youâre running from. The less people that know the things that could hurt you, the safer you are.âÂ
âYou think John would do whatârun you out of town if he knew?â you ask, hardly able to convey your disbelief.
âThe point is that neither of us know until the very moment when it matters most.â
âBut thatâs not John,â you stress.Â
âItâs the same John that you wonât trust with your secrets either.â And that strikes true. It dumbs you into silence, mouth opening uselessly for words that donât come. The battering behind your lips like an inch of give, opening then to silence across the open plain.
You want desperately to say something that just wonât come. But how can you say anything at all these days? How does your voice not give out at the slightest quiver of emotion? You speak with a voice plump like fig skin, easy give, and violet bruised. It is always tender when you bite it through.
When Kate notices the way you struggle for words, she takes pity on you, her smile more sympathetic than youâve ever seen it. âEnough about that though. What say we get you something to eat before you head home?â
When the path of least resistance beckons you forth, you run towards it.Â
Your troubled conscience persists however, speaking into your ear even as the first shaft of sunlight pierces through the slate clouds and illuminates the town in a soft glow. It troubles you so fiercely that all you can think about is retreating home and burying yourself under the warm quilt draped over your bed. It has you hastening to say your goodbyes, excusing yourself on the basis of taking Buttercup home.Â
Bidding Kate farewell, you step out of the shop to see that the rain has cleared. Everything after that dispels into the thinly perfumed air.
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lying on his chest and stroking his dick while we have a sloppy make out session
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Some friendly sparring with the sergeant, ghost has no idea what heâs in for
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this is so soap x reader coded
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i just want yall to know im doing a full fic for this lol. i had a ton of ideas and dialogue come to me randomly at work and i jotted it all down so i can work on the first chapter tonight and hopefully have it posted this weekend lol
Prison/Ex Convict Ghost
Who gets assigned a pen pal while heâs serving time. Gets assigned to someone with a pretty little name. Itâs almost endearing how they send him weekly letters sharing tidbits about their life, asking him about his life and his interests. He ignores them all. Every last letter he receives he reads with his nose upturned in distaste.
It isnât until about the 11th letter that the pen pal program finally peaks his interest⌠This time his little pen pal sent him a polaroid of themself. And oh arenât they just a dime⌠pretty little thing smiling innocently at the camera⌠He could swallow you whole. Rushes to the library to snag a pen and paper and FINALLY writes you back. He wonât let a pretty bird like this get away from him. Didnât you mention you liked to cook a few letters ago? Oh heâs smitten now. Stuffs the little polaroid picture of yourself that you sent him into his pillow case so he can sneak it out after hours and fist his cock under the scratchy prison sheets to the image of your pretty smile⌠Rolls his eyes when Johnny whines and asks if they can share pen pals because he got some old guy as his. He wants a pretty bird sending him sweet letters too :(
Ghost only has 3 more months.. he canât help but ask your name and where youâre from in his letters back to you. Cataloging every last detail about you so he can find you once he gets out. Pretty little thing should have never sent him such sweet letters in prison if they didnât want a brute showing up on their doorstep a few months laterâŚ
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prompt: forced throuple au; Ghost decides that you and Johnny are his (part 6; ghoap x reader)
parts 1, 2, 3, 4, 5
-
Johnny cleans up the lamp in the morning.
He might as well, being on second watch and all. Ghost wakes him up at the ass crack of dawn with a gentle kick to the ribs (gentle for him) before rolling over on the couch and going right to sleep. Itâs routine for them to fall into sleep like rocks sinking in water, but the waking up is never quite as graceful. Johnny snorts awake and whips his head around sharply from side to side before confirming that heâs just in his girlfriendâs apartment and the asshole that woke him up is just his ornery lieutenant.Â
âI better not hear any fuckinâ jabber,â is all Ghost says before closing his eyes. Johnny chews his lip to keep the grin off of his face.
He tries to keep it down after that. For the first couple of hours, he sits up against the wall and scrolls on his phone. That keeps him occupied until any lingering exhaustion is flushed from his veins.
Thereâs a broom and dustpan in a small closet in the kitchen where his girl also keeps the garbage bags and compost bin that he uses to sweep up the mess, and he tries to make as little noise as possible while he cleans up. The glass makes a tinkling sound as itâs swept up though, just loud enough that it inevitably wakes his girl up.
She comes creeping out of her room late into the morning, the shop not due to open for another hour or two. The late weekend opening hours mean she usually gets to sleep in.Â
Weeks back, it used to be something that Johnny got to do with her as well, cuddled until sheâd suddenly pull away, then waking up to her swallowing his cock, peeking under the bedsheets to find her pretty head bobbing up and down his length. Groaning and palming her head to press her lips down to the base, eyes rolling back at the sound of her gagging around his length, the base of his dick a mess of come and drool.Â
In the present day though, she clears her throat. Johnny blinks and refocuses on her.Â
Her eyes flit to Ghostâs still form on the couch and when they dart back to Johnny, he raises a finger to his lips. Let the man rest. Itâs the least Johnny can do for him after he dragged him back to his girlâs place to make amends. She hazards another cautious glance at Ghostâhis lieutenant lies still as a statue on the couch, motionless like he isnât even breathingâbefore pursing her lips, displeased.Â
In the light of day, his previous anger feels cleansed. He understands now. Theyâve gone about this all wrong, topsy-turvy. Heâs been chasing his own tail and making a mess of things for far too long now, but Ghostâs voice is clear in his head now. It settles him. Â
So when his girl goes to open her mouth, maybe thinking that she can whisper softly enough so as not to wake Ghost up, he steps forward quickly and covers her mouth.Â
She squawks behind his hand. Again, he shakes his head. Any sound would be too loud for the man slumbering on her couch.Â
Johnny can feel her swallow behind his palm and it almost makes him salivate. His fingers twitch on her cheeks like he might press them into the soft skin and make her lips pout.Â
âNot here,â he murmurs, almost mouthing the words.
He waits until she nods before removing his hand. Then he leaves to go dump the dustpan filled with glass into the trash.Â
She corners him in the bathroom after that and itâs all he can do not to come in his pants. Itâs not his fault heâs been trigger happy since Ghost tugged them off on the sparring mats and came on his stomach; heâs been pent up since the last time he saw her. Thereâs still flakes of dried come on his belly. He only half resists lifting his shirt to look. If his girl knew, sheâd be mortified.Â
He wonders if sheâd be more upset that he let Ghost beat off on him or that he didnât clean up his mess.Â
Johnny lets the bird guide him to the toilet, letting her shove him down onto the lid.
âAh, hen, ye really wanna do this now?â he teases, spreading his legs and wrapping his hands around her waist to reel her in, slipping up her shirt at the same time.Â
He almost moans when she slaps him across the face, biting his lip when she gasps right after, surprised at her own actions. âOhâfuckâIâm so sorryââ
He clicks his tongue, lips curling up into an impish grin. âDinnae worry, baby. âM tougher than I look.â
Itâs a small mercy that sheâs too agitated to really look him over because if she were to direct her gaze even slightly south, sheâd find Johnnyâs shaft straining against his fly, hard enough to pound nails the second her hand touched his face. He swallows a groan and his fingers tighten, sinking deeper into her flesh.Â
âI didnât mean toâJesus, it doesnât matter.â He loves that when she gets frustrated, her bottom lip juts out. It makes him want to sink his teeth into it. âWhen yourâŚboss or whateverâŚwakes up, can you please take him and leave?â
âLeave?â Johnny repeats, blinking up at her innocently.Â
âYes. Leave,â she says, stressing the word. He hums and strokes his thumb over the soft skin of her stomach, pleased that she hasnât yet told him to take his hands off her. Sweet little bird. âWe kissed and made up. Thatâs what you came for, right? So the two of you can get going once he wakes up.â
âNo breakfast?âÂ
She looks distinctly unimpressed. âThereâs a coffee shop down the block.â
âAye, I ken, baby,â Johnny croons, pulling her in closer, smiling when she squeaks and braces her hands on his shoulders, his face almost cradled between her breasts. He turns his head to kiss one, mouth lingering over the cotton of her shirt, tempted almost to bite and rip it. âItâs jusâ thatâŚseems an awful like the second Simon and I take off, youâre jusâ gonna go right back to cold shouldering me. Sure youâre nae jusâ putting on a little show for me now?â
Her fingers grip him by the fabric of his shirt. âJohnnyââ She yelps when he bites the inside of her breast, snarling when she tries to pull away. âOkay, okay, okay, I got itââ
âThatâs right,â he says with a content sigh, pulling back just the slightest bit. âYouâre nae going anywhere. Not until weâve talked this out, nice and civil.â
When she stares down at him, wide-eyed, like she canât quite believe what sheâs seeing, itâs a rush like heâs never experienced. He feels right in the flow of things now, his head on straight for once.Â
âWhatâs there to talk about?â she mumbles, and he almost melts. âIâm not mad anymore.â
âNae mad? Then whyâre ye trying to kick us out?â
âBecause Iâm busy, Johnny,â she snaps. âThe shopâs opening in an hour and I donât have time to babysit the two of you.â
âYe willnae even notice weâre here, hen, I promise. Fuck, Iâll even help ye outâmake some deliveries, go shake anyone down that still owes yeââ
âI donât shake down my customers, Johnnyââ
âWhatever ye need, baby.â He drags his palms up her sides, pulling up her shirt with his hands. Her tits pop out like ripe fruit dangling in front of his mouth, puffy nipples begging to be sucked on. âSimon and I will be right here. Ye can use us however ye want.â
He stares at her nipple while saying that, unconsciously leaning forward until his lips graze her skin and his tongue pokes out. She doesnât budge, just curses under her breath and lets him rub his tongue over her beaded nipple, shaking in his hold. Johnny bets if he pulled down those little sleep shorts of hers, heâd find a wet little cunt begging for a fat cock to fill her up.Â
Itâd take nothing for him to pull them down and give her what sheâs asking for. The love of his life is tucked away beneath a layer of flimsy cotton and begging for him to give her some love and affection. Johnny hasnât kissed her in God knows how longâa week? Two? Heâd probably find her swollen and aching beneath her shorts; could get her to come just by dragging two fingers up the seam of her.Â
He knows what Ghost would say though, so he drags his teeth over her nipple just for the pleasure of feeling her flinch and then pulls back. The bird blinks down at him with hazy eyes when he helps readjust her shirt, pulling it back down to cover her gorgeous tits, a damp spot on her shirt over the nipple he just had in his mouth.Â
âWeâre not going toâŚ?â she asks, letting the question dangle in midair. She says it without thinkingâclearly, because the second it dawns on her that she just asked if they were going to fuck in the bathroom with Johnny sitting on the toilet, she looks horrified with herself. Itâs beyond endearing.Â
âNoâ with Simon in the other room, baby. Wouldnae be fair for him to have to listen in.â
He doesnât tell her that fairness in this case doesnât mean cruel. It means that it wouldnât be possible.Â
Still, he needs to shoo her out of the bathroom to tug one out into the toilet bowl. Johnny would be half tempted to jerk off onto her mirror just to leave his mark where she could see, but he has some manners.Â
He gives himself a nice, leisurely tug with the help of his girlâs expensive hand lotion. Itâs not as viscous as the lube in the gallon tub on his nightstand back at the barracks, but itâs a good substitute; makes his hand glide nicely over his shaft. If he closes his eyes, it even smells like her, like itâs his girl giving him a morning reach around, and part of Johnny wonders whether he was too quick to kick her out of the bathroom. Ghost wouldnât begrudge him a quick and dirty jerk.
The thought dissolves the longer his hand flies over his dick though. Hard to think about anything outside the present moment when his hand is braced against the wall and his orgasm barrelling towards him. When he comes, itâs with a deep, shuddering grunt, not even bothering to muffle the sound. He hopes his girl hears him from the other room. He hopes it makes her squirm and ache.Â
When he comes out of the bathroom, another voice takes him by surprise.
âJohnny. Youâre on breakfast.â
Ghostâs voice is gruff in the early morning hours, abrupt. Rarely could it be classified as gentle, but itâs like chert rattling in a leather bag after hours of disuse. Especially since it comes out of nowhere, the man asleep one moment and awake the next. Johnnyâs worked with him long enough to not flinch at the sudden sound of his voice, but his girl hasnât; she yelps when his voice comes unbidden from the couch, big body suddenly upright like heâs been awake the whole time.Â
Heâs no cook, but Johnny can rustle up eggs and bacon like any other self-respecting serviceman. On deployment, they used to rotate cooking duty every night, no one skilled enough to take over the post permanently. Still, Johnny eyes Ghost worriedly when he takes a seat across from the bird at her little kitchen table. Itâs not a table meant for two grown men, just a small wooden thing with four chairs, only enough for one on each side. It means that Ghostâs knees knock against hers when he takes the chair across from her, forcing her to curl up into herself, tucking her legs under the chair.Â
He stares her down. Menacing eyes. Not the kind of man you want sitting across from you, no matter the circumstances. It makes Johnny anxious to turn his back on them when he has to crack the eggs into the pan, checking over his shoulder religiously. The whites go crispy at the edges before he remembers to flip them over.
âYou work downstairs in the flower shop,â Ghost says bluntly, breaking the silence. His first words to Bird all morning. Not a question.
ââŚYes,â Bird answers gingerly. Her palms are clamped over her knees, sweating likely. âI own it.â
âSince when?â He doesnât blink before firing off another question.
âUmâŚtwo years.â
âWhereâd you work before?â
âInâŚin London. I was a shopgirl there thoughââ
âWhereâs your family from then?â
It goes on that way for a time, an interrogation with no rhyme or reason. Even Johnny has to wonder at Ghostâs intentionsâknows that thereâs no shot that Ghost hasnât already done a background check on her. Why interrogate the bird then? Why rattle off question after question in such quick succession? Why make her tremble and look down at the tabletop and stutter out her answers and fidget under his stareâ
He notices Ghostâs hand slip beneath the table to grip his length, spreading his legs to help readjust.
Ah. Mean bastard. Of course heâd get off on making her squirm.
The bacon burns. Johnny canât help it. He listens attentively to her clear voiceâsofter in the morning hours, still sleep-laden and floweryâwhispering out her lifeâs story, dick getting hard behind the kitchen island. He bites his lip to hold back a moan when she trips over her words. Thrusts forward to rub his bulge against the underside of the island when she chews on her lip, relieving some of the pressure. It drives him mad that thereâs a wet cunt going unsatisfied just a few feet away.Â
Ghost shoots him a sharp look as if he can hear his thoughts. âJohnny.â
He turns around to flip the burner off.
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johnny x reader, except youâre his prize.
letâs state the facts: your partner has a gambling problem. you first thought of it as innocent, but when your jewelry started to disappear piece by piece, when your laptop went missing, you started asking questions. it's your boyfriend after all, someone you trust so much, so he has to have a good explanation for all of this, right?
well, you wish you didn't ask him. you wish you wouldn't dig into it because it got to a point that you learned about his massive losing streak, debt. he promises you he won't do it anymore, and for some reason, you want to believe him.
you know you shouldn't, but you do.Â
this trust breaks completely when he says that you have to move out to your parents again because he lost your shared apartment.
you're furious, calling him names until he says thereâs actually a way to win it all back.Â
you want to laugh when he says he can put you instead of the money. actually, you do laugh, but you stop the second you see heâs not joking. he says something about a âcreepy, weird guyâ that heâs playing with, and how he always encourages him to do so. because it will be âfunâ. because thereâs lot of adrenaline in that and you want to scream, when he really seems to think of it.
âiâm not gonna lose against him. iâm teaming up with a guy-âÂ
something tells you that you shouldnât do it, but when your boyfriend brings the money a few times in a row in the next week, you gain hope. you visit the casino with him to see him play and to see the weird guy.
âthe weird guyâ doesnât look weird at all; thereâs a dangerous charm about him, about this mohawk that he has, broad shoulders and a jawline that could cut you.
his eyes are on you multiple times during the play. he acts like he owns the place when he doesnât even look at the cards but at you, flashing you a smile. you see the hint of teeth in that smile, and you know thatâs not good.
thereâs nothing kind in it. itâs more predatory than anything.
and you know youâre right, when your boyfriend looks with shock at you, and the other men look defeated.
âthis has to be a joke, right?â you ask, taking steps back when you see that the man is standing up. âsomething like this canât be allowed, itâs just wrong, itâsââ
âwrong is also stealing,â the man says, tipping your chin up. âand you shouldnât steal, bonnie. thaâs real bad, ye know? especially from me.â
thereâs no pole for discussion when he throws you over his shoulder, when youâre about to throw a tantrum. he just laughs and tells you his name.
because apparently, youâre supposed to know it from now on.
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