Latest Posts by babybatreads - Page 9

Clark watched Bruce warily as he experimented with the string between them. Bruce had long ignored the red string of fate that connected them, but he could no longer avoid it after Clark had used it to stop him from storming out of a heated argument. Although only Bruce could see the string, Clark always felt its undeniable presence.

Recently, Bruce had begun to find practical uses for their bond. He usually used it as a communicator, tugging at the string whenever he needed Superman’s assistance.

Despite their growing reliance on this bond, neither really talked about the emotional weight of their connection. Bruce never initiated the conversation, and Clark hesitated to push the subject, especially when Bruce had only recently acknowledged the string's existence.

Clark had always assumed that Bruce saw their bond as more of an inconvenience until one day, Clark suddenly found himself able to see their string.

To his shock, it wasn’t the red he had expected—it was black. Traditionally, red strings of fate would turn black when a relationship was filled with rage and contempt. Bruce had been distancing himself because he thought Clark harbored resentment toward him.

But as Clark examined the string more closely, he realized something Bruce hadn’t seen. Their string wasn’t truly black—it was the deepest shade of red, signifying a mutual love that had matured and strengthened over time. Its color was so saturated that it appeared black to the naked eye.

What Bruce mistook for hatred was, in fact, a love so strong that its depth had been misinterpreted.

Some more ghostprice for brenna! Thanks for waiting 😮‍💨⚡️

fanart

don't know why but it comes to my mind so I draw it

assistant!Reader that the guys didn’t know took up weightlifting classes and self-defence after a run in with a creep when out shopping one evening

Soap finding you in the rec room one morning, making Price’s tea, and he notices your headphones are in. An evil grin spreading across his face as he slinks towards you

He snickers to himself, wiggling his fingers before grabbing your side, and the next few seconds are a whirlwind as your shrieks registers in his ear before your hand is gripping his wrist in a death grip, whirling around as you slam your knee to his abdomen, before swiping your foot under his, sending him sprawling back in a fit of coughs and groans

“Soap? Oh my god! What the fuck?!” You cry, dropping to your knees beside him as Gaz and Ghost rush in, Johnny staring at the ceiling, struggling to breathe

gotham rainy nights

i firmly believe in Duke doing silly things with his power

hiding under your dad's cape when it's pouring outside can be something very special + bat-rain-poncho, several years later

reblog if your name isn't Amanda.

2,121,566 people are not Amanda and counting!

We’ll find you Amanda.

Batman Appreciation Post #11

Thick Thighs

Batman Master Collection

no thoughts, head empty just thinking about John falling asleep on like a lazy boy recliner, having come in from shoveling the snow in the front yard, and he obviously gotta hit the dad pose with his arms crossed, mouth open and snoring away like a bear. His SAS days have never left him, but during the winter it is his weakness, he’s a tired bear dad. So that’s why his kids where able to ambush him, climbing on his chair, startling him making him crack his neck, while his little cubs cuddle close to their dad taking a nap in his arms. You’ll find them there like that later and put a cover on them, leaving them to cuddle together in the warm home you and john made

Patience 💤

Husband!Simon Riley that lurks behind you constantly. in your home, at the grocery store, at a bar - he’s just looming behind you. sometimes he just stands and stares at the back of your head, absolutely smitten that you’re his and he’s yours. he’s not the best with words, but he’s great at following behind you

Husband!Simon Riley that’s silently delighted when you lean against him. he’s sturdy, a wall of a man - he’s cracking a small smile under his mask when you lean into him. he’s wrapping his arm around your waist, supporting your weight as you glance around. he tried leaning against you once, he didn’t tell you and caught you off guard, almost sending you tumbling to the floor

Husband!Simon Riley that likes when you give him mundane tasks. he’s always been good about following through on orders, yours just happen to be less life-or-death than his job. he’ll do exactly what you tell him to do, no comments or complaints. you want him to fold laundry? he’s doing it how you showed him, folding shirts and pants the way you like. you want him to change a lightbulb? he’s already walking to the closet. you want him to give you a kiss? say less, he’s stalking towards you

Husband!Simon Riley that spritzes his clothes with your perfume/cologne. just a little, he likes that he can walk around alone but it still feels like you’re with him. it doesn’t matter what scent it is - floral, fruity, smokey, musky, he’d happily drown in the scent. sometimes he sprays his balaclava with it before he leaves on a deployment, the 141 silently side eyeing each other because they can smell Ghost coming before they can see him

Butcher!Ghost + Soap

cw: blood

i was put on this gay ass earth to draw the same pictures again and again

Does Simon ever ask MOB about her family? If someone is out looking for her?

mail-order bride

"olways wanted to ask," simon murmurs. he talks into your hair, his face pressed close to you as he hugs you closer. it's late; the black cat is curled up on the windowsill, and the orange one is under the covers, tucked into the space between you and simon's feet. your eyes flutter open a little more at the sound of his voice, laced with sleep.

"ask what?"

"about before."

you close your eyes, pressed your face into his chest, and he smooths a big palm down your back.

"is there someone waiting for ya?"

"no," you say softly.

"were ya running from somethin'?"

you shake your head slowly. "no, simon."

"no one is lookin' fer ya? no one at oll?"

you curl your fingers around his shirt, your lip trembling just a little. you're glad for the darkness of the room. he can't see the struggled look on your face as you try and compose yourself.

"why are you surprised?" you sniffle. it's the first time in a long time that you suddenly feel vulnerable. in the many months it has been since you've been married to him, you have not felt anything but love. even before you understood the connection you had, simon has always been kind and unnervingly considerate and endlessly thoughtful. every insecurity you ever had has slowly faded into the background. you have never felt more beautiful, more secure, more supported, more deserving, ever in your entire life; but this began with simon. everything that came before him, you want to forget, you want to make a distant place that you don't recognize anymore. because as soon as you think about it, all of it comes back. the drop in your chest tells you enough. "no one's ever wanted me, simon."

if i disappear, i'm not sure who would even think to look for me.

his hand in your hair tightens. big fingers scratching along your scalp, drawing you close, and when you open your eyes, you see his own looking back at you.

the feeling in your chest is gone. simon is here. simon would come for you. wherever you are, whatever happens to you, simon would notice, simon would listen, simon will come if you cry.

he would notice if you went missing for even a few minutes. even if he was gone, he would know.

"well...i want you, baby," simon whispers, and you crawl over him, laying on top of him, trying to wrap yourself around him and smother him because fuck, i love you so much.

simon never brings it up again. he doesn't need to. the only family of yours he needs to be concerned with is himself.

and the nitwit biting his toes under the fucking blankets.

simon knew it was over the moment he realized just how freaky you are.

simon knew he was massive—he always had.

it was a quiet fear that followed him, the thought that if he lost control for even a moment, he might hurt you. his touch was always careful, deliberate.

his hands were wrapped around your neck, not tight, but gentle—just enough to feel the pulse beneath your skin. his thumbs rested softly against your throat, his grip light, careful not to leave a mark. but when you started frantically grinding your hips against his, rolling your body in desperate need, everything shifted.

a low, guttural noise rumbled from his throat as his body responded on instinct. without meaning to, his hands tightened, gripping your neck for leverage as you moved against him. he froze for a second, startled by his own strength. but then—

it happened.

you clenched tighter around him, your head falling back as a broken moan escaped your lips. you were crying out, completely undone, lost in the moment. your hips bucked harder, desperate for more, and it hit him like a bolt of lightning:

you liked it rough.

you, his innocent, angelic girl — the one with soft smiles and bright eyes, the one who blushed at the smallest touch — had been hiding it all along.

he stared at you, stunned, as you begged with your body, your innocent exterior cracking to reveal the wicked, burning desire beneath. his angel wasn't just soft and sweet

—you were freaky.

a low growl rumbled in his chest as he leaned in, the ghost of a grin tugging at his lips. “you've been holding out on me, haven't you, lovie?” he murmured, his voice dark with amusement and something far more dangerous.

A little break before we go on with Nikto

Masterlist

Recommended fics

Call of Duty

Bleed into my open mouth will you, won't you? by @kaadaaan

Summary: Simon Riley never learned to let go. He lets the pain follow him, swallow him, devour him whole. For once, he wants to be the one who consumes.

This fan art!!!

Recommended Creaters

Call of Duty

@bi-writes, @dante-mightdie, @yooo-lets-go

Bleed into my open mouth will you, won't you?

Summary: Simon Riley never learned to let go. He lets the pain follow him, swallow him, devour him whole.

For once, he wants to be the one who consumes.

Warnings: Dead dove do not eat, cannibalism, blood and gore, whump, hurt no comfort, 18+.

A/N: Vague ghoap thing. Not sure what it is actually blacked out wrote it stared at it in horror then proceeded to post it anyways.

“Used to be a butcher, y’know.” Simon breathes into the open air, dragging the cigarette to his lips with an unsteady hand. “When I left school. Smelled like shit, but taught me to be good with knives before I knew I’d need to be.”

The block has been pulled from the wall, torn down and leaving a gaping hole in it’s emptiness. His knives are scattered across the counter, unorganised and glinting in the clinical white light that swings above them. It creaks. He’d tear it down if he didn’t need it.

He’s reminded that he doesn’t need it; that he could close his eyes and bring the cleaver right down where he needs it to be and it would cut clean. He was always good at that bit. Heavy-handed enough so that he never had to sit and hack away at the meat. Not like the other lads. Better. He had a natural affinity for it.

For hacking and sawing and tearing and skinning. For bleeding dry and hooking and hoisting up over his shoulder until his arms burned.

“Wasn’t bad pay either, for a youngin.” He adds. “Got me by. ‘Till I joined up.”

He stubs the cigarette out on the table, pushing it down until the ash whispers out around it and the butt crumples up beneath his fingers. He brushes it away but it leaves a sear stain on the wood.

“Shouldn’t have brought you here, Johnny.” He admits. “Don’t know why I did.”

That’s a lie, and he grimaces at how badly it’s told. Something in him nags, like he should at least do his Sergeant the dignity of seeing the deceit through. Playing it up, they both know he knows how. He hasn’t made it as far as he has without being a liar.

He’s been lying all day. 

Lying to the Captain was the hardest. Not because of any difficulty in doing it, lying came to him easier than breathing did these days. It was knowing the Captain knew he was lying, and knowing he didn’t do anything to stop him. 

God, Simon wanted to say something. He wanted to be stopped. He wanted to be kicked in the teeth and to bleed his own blood into his mouth. Be his own victim for a change. But he didn’t want it enough. Couldn’t help himself, and then again…he never really could.

He could never keep up with his mouth, eyes too slow to catch what he was doing, brain whirring on and on beyond and before what he could trap between his teeth.

“But, you’re here now.” Simon whispers, but the words echo anyways; bouncing off of the checkerboard tiles plastered on the wall. “And I can’t take you back.”

He blindly skims the counter, hand dusting across until the thick of the blade presses a papercut into his thumb. Then, he closes his fist around the handle. Knuckles click, chains rattle as he ambles around the room.

It’s an art. A dirty art.

But Johnny is beautiful. Johnny is clean. The morgue did a good job; painted the warmth back into his skin, the redness back into his lips so it looks like the blood’s still flowing. Simon leans over, thumbs the cold, cracking skin there and smears the lipstick away. Rubs until it comes off on his own skin, and there’s only pale white death left on Johnny’s mouth.

He streaks a line of it across his own. It smells chemical, dries too quick on his skin. 

The light creaks again.

Simon clatters his free fist against it, drawing back and back again until the strip hangs lopsided and flickers out of life. The darkness swallows him whole, buries the room in it. His eyes adjust quick, enough to see the outline of Johnny’s bicep- where it attaches to the shoulder.

It’s art.

The moment he brings the cleaver down, it’s art. When the blade lodges into the table and he doesn’t bother to yank it out, it’s art. He cradles the cut in his hand, softly dislodges it from any stringing cartilage attaching it to the shoulder and runs his fingers over the separation, buries into the now loose muscle, the blood bubbling up around his nail beds and burrowing beneath the overhang.

It’s art. It’s art. It’s art. It’s beauty, it’s creation not desecration.

The ashes wouldn’t be enough. He’d have to share them, split them. Halve and quarter them and quarter them again until he gets maybe an eighth. Simon can’t bear to lose a morsel of him. 

A scribbled recipe sits untouched by the oven. Simon’s eye catches the crinkle of the paper, the yellowing sheet crumpled and then smoothed out over the countertop.

He can’t keep up with his mouth.

His teeth vanish into the cut of flesh, incisors cracking against canines, molars clinging to what meat they can find. It’s acrid in his mouth, his tongue swims in the blood that floods there. He pulls too hard, the arm almost slipping out of his grasp as he yanks his head back in some failed cinematic replica of how he’s seen the consumption go in films. 

It doesn’t go down easy, fights every inch of his mouth and gullet as he rips it apart with his teeth and sits the chunks on his tongue. He’d laugh if it meant he wouldn’t choke. It’s just like Johnny, to make things so difficult. 

He almost pukes the first mouthful up, has to tenderly set the arm down and grip the table with one hand, barricading over his mouth with the other until the nausea in his stomach settles. Until Johnny settles.

Simon sucks the blood from his teeth, wipes it down with his tongue, content to make it go down with his own saliva out of fear that water might dampen the taste. He’s so used to death that he can’t distinguish the smell of it, but the taste is fresh. Only ever been had second-hand, when too much blood seeps out of the bodies he leaves behind him and taints the air with its decay.

He won’t taste it ever again. Not like this, not this whole, not this fresh. Not if it’s not Johnny.

He could’ve left anyone else at the morgue. Quite happily, he could have visited the body and said his goodbyes and walked away and been okay. 

No one else fills him with the desire to have and be had like Johnny does. 

Looming over the corpse, Simon sighs. He presses a bloody hand to the outline of Johnny’s face, tugs the man’s lips ajar. Sobs into his open mouth. Spits the blood back in, heaves and crushes his eyes shut so he doesn’t have to see. Clumsily travels his fingers down the arm that’s still attached, interlocks their fingers together. He has to curl Johnny’s into his manually. Stiff bone by stiff bone, until they sit, lax, in his own. 

His head wants to apologise, to sew the remaining arm back on and zip Johnny back up in the bag. Put his tux back on and drive him back to the morgue before morning light, take his eighth of the ashes and pour them into a vial he can keep in his jacket pocket.

Shaking and swallowing back salt and iron, Simon peels himself away from Johnny. He fixes the man's fingers back into place, before rounding the table and jiggling the cleaver out of the wood.

The cut of arm feels less heavy, and it’s jagged around the top where the bone peeks out above the mountain of flesh. Simon turns, fumbles for his phone and clicks the flashlight on- angling it at the floor as he drags his feet along the tiles and trudges to the freezer door.

He doesn’t bother with a coat, but winces at the way the cold nips and tugs at his skin. An array of hooks decorate from wall to wall, hanging from ceiling to floor. He presses his thumb into Johnny’s arm, before sinking the meat into a hook- watching the sharp point pierce up through the skin, the tiny squirt of blood that follows it.

A weak apology mumbles it’s way out of his mouth. The bite mark, the chunk missing, makes the meat look ugly. He squeezes a hand around a cold finger, before stepping out and slamming the door behind him.

He squints, and the cleaver glints on the wooden carving desk.

For years, Price remained the only person on Ghost’s emergency contact list. Price practically had to bully Ghost into getting put on there too. Then comes Soap, who makes his way on there like he belonged there. The scotsman was always so good at that type of thing. It’s been almost a year since Soap died. Ghost has been more reckless on ops, he knows it. This time, it lands him in the hospital. The staff says there’s two people on his emergency contact list, but Ghost knows only one could ever answer the call. He can’t bring himself to take Soap off. Ghost still pays Soap’s phone bill to hear his voice mail.

i cant be on twitter because i think if you are a fan of jayroy in any sense (platonic or romantic) they will shoot you with a gun

141 + konig, Alejandro, and Rudy with an S/O that has thick thighs

141 + koni, alejandro, n rudy with a s/o that’s got thickkk thighs

a/n: im so sorry for the delay in posts but i trust have sm to post yall don’t even worry

mainly cutesy stuff with some suggestive moments

john price loves how your thighs hug any pants you wear. he loves to keep a spare hand on them whenever he’s next to you, whether that is in a meeting or just relaxing on the couch. he believes that your thighs make your body just that much more perfect.

simon riley is obsessed with the shape of your thighs. he believes that they’re plush pillows that were made specifically for him to lay on. not even in a sexual way, he loves kissing up and down your thighs. the soft skin makes it a luxury experience for him.

johnny mactavish thinks your thighs are the best part of your body. of course he adores your face, but the way your thighs get bigger when you sit down, almost welcoming him to use them as pillows. he loves the way they grip around him when you’re on top.

kyle garrick believes being between your thighs is heaven on earth. in a sexual and non sexual manner. he loves sitting between your thighs and letting you stroke through his hair. he listens to you talk about your day but tends to get distracted by thinking about what your reaction would be if he flipped his head over.

könig LUUVSSSS how your thighs look in shorts. good lord omg. like you’ll just be walking around base and it takes everything in that tank of a man to not put you on the countertops and. i mean what omg lol. but he’ll also love up on you if you ever get self conscious about stretch marks, reassuring you it just adds to your perfections.

alejandro vargas is a slut for your thighs, sorry. the way they’re like the foundation of your body’s shape drives him insane. especially if you’re going out to an event and decide to wear a risqué dress, exposing the plush skin to everybody there. when you get home he’ll make sure to teach you a lesson.

rudy parra loves massaging your thighs. you’re not sure how it started. whenever he gets home from a particularly rough mission or if he just needs intimate time with you, he’ll make you lay down and allow him to massage them. it’s stress relieving for both you and him. rudy can’t help himself, not his fault your build is perfect.

‘would you love me if i were a worm?’

synopsis: asking the cod guys if they would love you if you were a worm

ੈ✩‧₊˚ price, gaz, ghost, soap, alejandro, rudy, graves, makarov

cw: one suggestive joke maybe?

an: i'm not super confident in how i wrote makarov…lmk what you guys think?

dividers from @/saradika-graphics :)

if you still sleep with a stuffed animal…

- price makes sure you don’t feel childish for it. you’re a little reluctant about admitting it first, but there’s no hiding it once you move in. you grip the edge of your shirt and stare down into the floor when he asks you about the well-loved teddy in one of your moving boxes. he embraces you and reminds you of your age and your big girl job, your degree, your car. none of that changes because you sleep with a stuffie, he mutters as his hands find your wide ass. goes on to tell you all the grown up things he wants to do you.

- kyle finds it endearing, even when you’re a little embarrassed to tell him about it. you’re already the most important person in the world to him. a stuffie only makes you more adorable in his eyes. and frankly, he gets it. it’s nice having something soft and warm to hold when you go sleep, he says and winks at you. still, teddy gets turned the other way when you two start undressing each other.

- johnny finds it a little odd, but only because he can fall asleep standing up in a chopper mid-flight, and therefore doesn’t quite understand that you have specific requirements in order to sleep well. but doesn’t tease you for it, instead always making sure teddy’s around for you. brings him out to the living room when you two (now three) are watching a movie and even borrows him for himself when you’re away. claims it’s because he smells like you, denies it’s because he’s growing fond of him too.

- simon treats teddy with the utmost respect. he probably had one too, long ago, until his father destroyed it. he understands your feelings about your stuffie and places him carefully on the floor next to the bed if you two get busy. stitches up his torn seams with his balaclava-thread. slides him gently back under your arm if you’re already asleep when he comes to bed. puts his own arms around you in turn, protecting your back while teddy has your front. still, slips a hand under your shirt to feel the soft skin of your tits to fall asleep to.

Can't Keep Your Hands To Yourselves

Kyletober Day 11: Breeding

Summary: It's time for your heat again. This time you have a special request.

Pairing: Labrador hyrbid!Kyle x Cocker Spaniel hybrid!reader x owner John

Word Count: 1,928 words

Warnings: NSFW, 18+, hybrids, p in v sex, unprotected sex, breeding kink, mating cycles, knotting, slightly rough sex, fingering, voyeurism, masturbation

A/N: This might be one of my favorites honestly. Weird because I'm not usually super into breeding kink but this one got to me.

MASTERLIST

Your back arches, pushing your ass higher into the air. The hands around your hips tighten, pulling you back against the hips snapping against your ass. You’re bent over the edge of the plush bed next to the TV in the living room, face down in the soft, fluffy fabric. Your hybrid mate Kyle’s hands are around your hips, his cock buried deep in your slick pussy. The wet squelch of it fills the otherwise silent house. 

Your owner left about an hour ago. 

It was about five minutes after that, that Kyle mounted you. 

You’ve been face down in the bed since. 

Needy whines fall from your lips as you get closer and closer to another orgasm, the last two not nearly enough to satisfy the burning need pulsing in your abdomen. Kyle hasn’t cum yet, not even faltered as he’s fucked you through the two, nearly three orgasms. 

The third is rapidly approaching, your fingers sinking into the fabric of the bed as the pleasure begins to intensify. Your legs are trembling, toes curling against the carpet as you get closer and closer to another orgasm. 

You writhe as the pleasure explodes beneath your skin, your eyes rolling back as Kyle continues to fuck you through another orgasm. Whines continue to fall from your lips as you squeeze around his cock, seeking out the thing you can’t have. 

A disappointed sigh is what pulls you from the sweet bliss of your orgasm. 

You shift your head on the soft, plush surface of the bed so you’re looking up at your owner John as he stands there. Another needy whine leaves your lips as Kyle keeps thrusting into you, driving his hips into your ass desperately. He’s close, his grunts getting deeper and deeper. 

“Can’t leave you two alone for five minutes.” Your owner shakes his head, watching the two of you. 

Kyle doesn’t stop, doesn’t seem phased at all as he continues to fuck you, his fingers digging into the plush skin of your hips. You pant and whine as he pushes you past the point of overstimulation, seeking his own orgasm. 

His hips grind against your ass as he finally cums, pushing his cock as deep as he can inside of you. He’s trying to knot you but he can’t. It’s not time for that yet. 

Your owner approaches as Kyle folds over your back, spilling his load inside of you. You’re still fluttering around him, even as John grabs the back of his neck, tugging him off of you. You let out a whine, hips jerking at the sudden emptiness. You lay there, hips still in the air, skirt flipped up over your tail. Your owner bends down, spreading your cheeks to stare down at your puffy pussy. 

He clicks his tongue, turning back to Kyle where he lays panting. “Well, clean up your mess.” 

Kyle lets out an excited growl, diving back on you to shove his face between your thighs, his eager tongue lapping at the mixed juices steadily dripping out of you. 

“Did he treat you well?” John asks, rubbing your belly as you lay across his lap. 

You nod, stretching your limbs before settling again. “Yes, he did.” 

“Good.” Your owner hums. 

Kyle perks his head up where he’s laying on the big dog bed, his ears alert as he stares at you. He blinks slowly, his tail starting to wag as another wave of arousal starts to pool in your belly. You let out a soft whine, shifting on John’s lap. 

“Close to your heat, aren’t you?” John sighs, rubbing your soft, fluffy ears. 

“Yes,” You whine, squeezing your thighs together. “Want pups this time.” 

John’s eyebrows raise as he stares down at you, his hand pausing where it’s rubbing your ears. “What?” 

“I want Kyle’s pups.” You say, looking up at John. 

“That’s a big responsibility.” John says, looking between the two of you as Kyle crawls over, laying his head on your stomach. John sighs, rubbing Kyle’s head. “Let’s talk about this while you’re not horny.” His hand slips into your pajama pants, fingers dipping between your thighs to your slick folds. Kyle sits back on his haunches, watching John’s hand move under your underwear as he circles your clit. 

“Come here, make yourself useful, pup.” John says, tugging your pajama shirt up over your breasts. 

Kyle shifts on his hands and knees, putting himself face to face with your chest. He leans down, taking one of your nipples into his mouth. You hold eye contact with him, your lips parting in a moan as John’s fingers sink into your pulsing pussy. Kyle suckles at your nipple, tugging lightly on the sensitive bud. Your thighs squeeze around John’s hand, heat starting to rush beneath your skin. 

You are close to your heat. You’ve been feeling that burning need, the steady itching beneath your skin. Your senses are sharpening, making you more sensitive to smells and tastes. You want to lick Kyle’s throat, taste his musky scent the way he’s licking at your nipple. You want to sink your teeth into him, shake him like a toy. 

Your hand lifts, wrapping around the back of his neck. He lets you guide him up to your lips, swallowing your moan as his fingers pinch your other nipple. You write on John’s lap as you kiss Kyle, your thighs squeezing around John’s hand as he pumps his fingers in and out of your sopping pussy. 

Kyle’s fingers tug at your nipple, squeezing and pulling almost like he’s trying to coax milk out. He’s imagining it, your breasts full of milk, tummy swollen with his pups. Will you have one or two? Will they take more after you or him? John is right, they’re a lot of work, but you’re sure this time. You want Kyle’s pups. 

Your body shudders as you whine against Kyle’s lips. The hand around the back of his neck holds him there as you cum around John's fingers. 

John soothes your needy whine as he situates the pillow under your hips. “Easy sweet girl. He’s coming.” 

Slick is sliding down your thighs, creating a damp spot under you on the pillow. You start rocking your hips, rubbing your clit against the damp fabric for some sort of relief. Your skin is burning and itching again, your pussy nearly pulsing in time with your heartbeat. You need relief. You need Kyle. 

Usually you’d be separated around this time. Kyle would go to Simon’s house while John keeps you comfortable for the three rough days at the peak of your cycle. Your most fertile days. 

Not this time, though. 

Your tail wags as you pick up a familiar scent in the air, the musky scent of Kyle and his arousal filling your nose. You push your hips up, lifting your tail as you present yourself for him, a low growl rumbling in his chest in approval. 

“Take good care of her.” John says, standing behind you with him. “Be easy.” 

You twitch as Kyle’s warm hands fall onto your skin, smoothing over the curve of your ass. His thumbs push against your puffy lips, spreading you apart so he can see your dripping pussy. The bed dips above you as John sits himself on the bed, relaxing against the headboard. You don’t pay him much mind as Kyle’s fingers drag through your folds, collecting some of your slick. Your hips push back against his hand, the desperate need for his cock and his knot clouding your mind. 

You need him to breed you. You need him to give you his pups. 

His fingers sink into you, your body opening to him automatically. He’s never seen you like this, he’s never experienced this part of your heat before. His sweet mate reduced to a needy, begging puppy. You fuck often outside of your heats, but it’s never like this. 

You’re panting, cheek pressed against the blanket spread out on top of the bed. It’s a special one, made specifically for heats to keep the bed from getting too wet. Your owner picked it up yesterday after your conversation. 

This is really happening. You’re really going to do this. 

You let out a needy whine as Kyle withdraws his fingers, pushing your hips back against him. His hand on your ass pushes you forward again, keeping your cheeks spread open. You don’t have to protest very long as the tip of his cock prods against your entrance. Slick gushes out of you, coating his cock as he begins to ease into you. 

There’s no resistance, your body opening eagerly to him as he pushes into you. He wastes no time, rutting into you immediately. His hands close around your hips, pushing you down against the pillow as his hips snap against your ass. Your toes curl as the sensation finally offers you a little relief, the heat beneath your skin blooming into a different kind of heat. 

The angle drags your clit along the pillow with every rough snap of Kyle’s hips, his body folding partially over yours as he loses himself to his instincts. Your scent is thick in the air, meshing with his and the sweet scent of your owner. 

You turn your head so you’re looking the other direction, towards your owner. He’s seated against the headboard still, watching the two of you. His pants are down around his knees, his hand fisting his cock. Your eyes roll in pleasure as Kyle continues to fuck you through your first orgasm, pleasure coursing through your veins. Your hips jerk, pushing back against Kyle’s hold as you cum, gushing all over the bed and his body. 

It doesn’t deter him at all, his pace continuing as he chases his own high. You know what’s coming once he does reach it, your pussy clenching in excitement. He grunts as you squeeze around him, his fingers digging painfully into your hips but you don’t care. The pain morphs itself into pleasure, your mind too far gone to care about the bruises you’ll have once it’s all over. 

There’s still quite a ways to go before that point, though. 

Kyle fucks you through another orgasm, your body limp against the bed. Fluffy hair sticks to your sweaty skin, your tail still high in the air, wagging slightly back and forth in anticipation. It’s about to come. He’s about to cum. 

You start pushing your hips back, feeling the slight swelling at the base of his cock. You push yourself with your hands pushing yourself back to meet his thrusts, almost as if you’re trying to push his knot into you already. You want it. You need it inside of you. That’s the only thing that’s going to ease the burning under your skin. 

“Please, please.” You gasp and moan, trying to push yourself back on his knot. “Please, Kyle.” 

“Got you.” Kyle grunts, folding himself over your back. “I got you.” 

He ruts his hips into you a few more times before his knot swells completely. He pushes it into you as he cums, your body clamping down around him as he finally gives you what you need. His fingers dip below you to rub your clit furiously. Your legs tremble and shake, squeezing around him as you cum again, gushing around his knot. 

John lets out a deep groan as he cums, spilling all over his hand. You lick your lips as both you and Kyle look up at him, your hand sliding across the comforter to reach out to him. 

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I love butcher!Simon. I love weirdo!Simon. But I extra love weirdo!butcher!Simon. He's just so awkwardly precious.

Nothing is does is socially correct. Covered in blood some dates, following reader around with the cleaver before, during, and after they were together. The things he talks about, proudly referring to some cuts of meat by the animal's pet name ( "Joe's ribs were extra tender to cut into. Was a good clean cut, lots of blood though.")

But you're just smiles and sunshine, the whole "that's my man. Thank you to my man" sound. Anyone who was around to see the first kiss thought you were being attacked when they saw you being held against your will by this brute in the alley by his shop. Or, the first time reader and Simon had sex and the cops were called to your apartment cause your neighbors saw him enter your apartment and heard your cries later on. Somehow, even the proposal was strange. When you tell the story, you tell it with big grins and distant happy look, but the other couple you're on the double date with (Gaz and his bird maybe, or an old friend of reader's who was in town) are now anxiously watching the door and Simon, wondering how you could have ended up with this man.

It's true love.

c/w: somno, dub-con, blood, menstruation, period sex

I love the idea that butcher!simon’s wife is so super obsessed with him because he’s just such a strange guy. and she likes her men a little strange

everything he does is endearing to her, “funny” stories about how he comes home covered in blood and scares the everloving shit out of you. his blunt, uncomfortable humor always makes her giggle whilst everyone else looks on horrified

they just don’t understand how good he is to you :( he brings you a thick cut of of steak on the first day of your period and cooks it up proper for you. in exchange, however, you have you let him eat your pussy until his face is smeared with your blood.

or how he he makes you feel so safe and protected at night, wrapped you in those burly arms and squeezing you so tight. just don’t be upset when you wake up to your hand wrapped around his cock, his own hand forcing you to pump his shaft until he spills all over your fingers after only a few strokes :(

he’s just such a pathetic loser

Husband Simon Riley who has scared the shit out of you so many times and so badly that on certain occasions you’ve almost cried.

He doesn’t do it on purpose; he swears. He’s just so silent when he moves that you don’t even realise he’s right behind you until you turn around and let out a loud scream.

One night, you’d gotten up in the middle of the night to go to the toilet. You couldn’t be bothered to turn the light on in your on-suite but as you were washing your hands, your saw a massive figure in the doorway. You let out a blood-curdling scream, only realising it was Simon when he switched on the light and looked at you as if he were crazy.

However, when he saw you tip your head into your hands and saw your shoulders shake, heavy with emotion from fear and shock, he knew he had messed up. He gently pulled you into his arms, carrying you back to bed and apologising profusely.

“I’m so sorry, baby.”

“I didn’t mean to scare you that bad.”

“Should’ve spoken so you knew I was there, yeah?”

He makes it up to you eventually and promises to start speaking whenever he walks behind you in the future.

Simon is aware of his size.

Ever since he’d shot up a foot and began towering over his teachers in school, he’d grown used to the surprised looks and stares that sometimes followed his large stature.

It wasn’t something that bothered him. Honestly, it came with too many advantages for him to care whether it led to more eyes on him in public spaces or having to duck through shorter entry ways.

It wasn’t something he spent much time thinking about either. He was just tall, all there was to it.

Until you came into his life.

Until suddenly the size difference between you two wasn’t just something that wandering eyes would notice, but apparently something to be envied.

He notices the way other women keep stealing glances over at the two of you, as Simon effortlessly lifts you in his arms, sometimes holding you up against a large muscular shoulder, as you reach to pick the best looking apples off the branches at the orchard. Those women are fidgeting with their baskets as their partners attempt to climb short ladders and shake loose some of the fruit, unaware to the way their ladies are all imagining what it would be like to be in your place right now.

He notices the way a young woman in the grocery store blatantly stares at the way he casually plucks the jar off the very top shelf that you had been straining on tip toes to reach. He drops it into your shopping cart with a smile, watching as the woman’s gaze shifts to the difference in your hands as he interlocks his fingers through yours.

Even you can’t help but to notice the way a group of mums giggle and swoon as your mountain of a man casually untangles the bunch of balloons that had gotten caught in a tree, returning it to the young boy who was celebrating his birthday party in the park you two had been strolling through.

Oh yes, Simon’s large size came with an endless list of advantages.

But the very best parts of his stature, the toe-curling, heart-racing, slick producing advantages to his size, well, those were kept between you, him, and your bedsheets.

kinktober - day 22 - deepthroating

price x gn!reader | 535 words cw: noncon deepthroat 'training', implied abduction, restraints a/n: short and not sweet. summary: working you up to the real thing. banner by @/cafekitsune | kinktober list

“Open.” 

The man’s voice is deep. Unfamiliar and gravel-thick. Reeking of tobacco. Roughness hangs in every word like he’s forcing sound through smoke.

Despite the cloud of fear rendering your mind sluggish and slow, you try to focus on scent and sound. The blindfold tightly wound around your head necessitating it. You force yourself to remember, even as pure terror squeezes your heart as the stranger squeezes your jaw.

“Please, no more, no mo—ough!”

Silicone catches your mouth curled around that ‘o’, and the heel of the man’s hand forces it past your lips and beyond. It barges into your throat, making it impossible to even sob, let alone breathe.

The sudden invasion constricts your chest. The air thickens, the sharp tang of panic rising like a leak in the bottom of a life raft. You thrash with your wrists useless above your head. Your ankles, too. All four limbs immobile and secure, rattling against what sounds like metal posts.

Deprived of your vision, there’s no telling if everything’s fading to black or not. But the unsettling calm that rushes over after several minutes of struggling to breathe around a fake cock is enough. You could die like this. You kind of hope you do. This is torture, and it’s carried on for ages. Your lungs feel bruised.

The silicone pulls out of your mouth. A violent cough explodes from your chest, the air coming in ragged bursts. Another hand strokes over your neck, a mocking comfort, before it fixes to the underside of your jaw. Thick fingers curl and press into where it’s most tender and restrictive. 

“Breathe, sweetheart.”

The endearment is salt in the wound. Your cheeks burn with humiliation.

The toy plunges over your tongue and immediately nudges into your gullet once more. He fucks your mouth with a controlled and uncompromising rhythm. When he started, he called it ‘training’, but there’s been no gentleness. No baby steps. Just this. Brute force and cruel repetition. Beneath the blindfold, your eyes water, and snot beads in your nose. Though you still beg every time you draw enough breath, hoping to wear down whatever barbarity drives the stranger, your body simultaneously tries to comply. It’s not very good, though.

The sound of wet suction repeatedly breaks over your retching.

“That’s alright, sweetheart. Gag. Gag now, because I won’t tolerate it if you gag later.”

He must smile at the fresh surge of tears that summons.

Your nostrils flare, desperately sucking in oxygen as drool escapes down your chin unchecked. The hollow of your throat is a puddle. Cheeks drenched. Your palms must be bloody with how hard you dig your nails into your flesh. 

The pressure relents. He pets your quivering tongue with the cock, patting the fat of it before pulling it out. Strings of your spit stretch and snap, splattering onto your nose and cheeks like a wet cobweb.

The bed creaks. Your body rises slightly as the mattress slowly inflates with the removed weight. The toy, you assume, lands somewhere near your feet a moment later. You breathe heavily, throat burning from its torment. You’re unable to get a word past your cracking lips.

A zipper rasps down its teeth.

“Open.” 

breaking news… local bird comes back to life and is NOT happy…