Did We As A Society Just Forget This Happened?

Imo I think we need more poly 141 fics or threesome fics where reader and one of the lads are the subs. Like I’m obsessed with your dom ghost and sun reader and soap!!! I wish there were more fics like that our there!

YEA YEA ABSOLUTELY!! i love love that dynamic; the ghoap x reader one has a special place in my heart because it’s so ‘master and his pet and his pet’s toy’ trope yk??? but yea dude poly!141 (x reader) is just so beautiful, but when theres clear power dynamics going on?? oh yeaa <3

also uh if its any consolation, i have a bunch of lil blurbs of this dynamic :3

his command, 02 (dom price x sub reader x switch ghost)

mommy (sub soap x dom reader; sub gaz x dom reader)

sir n his dolls, 02 (dom price x sub reader x sub gaz)

frenzied addiction (dom ghost x sub reader x sub soap)

little lamb and lying dog (dom price x sub reader x sub ghost)

orgasm denial, 02 (dom price x switch reader x sub ghost)

marionette (dom ghost x sub reader x switch gaz)

….yea! teehee >3<

Touch Me 'Till I Vomit (pet!au) [11]

pet!au | ghoap x fem!reader | tag list

old memories

cw: non-con, PTSD, anxiety, slight suicidal ideation, manipulation, extremely unsafe handling of firearms

No matter how many years pass, Johnny’s still in that tunnel. 

Those damp walls follow him everywhere, and the humidity clings to his body like a second skin. Smothers every pore of his body until it’s screaming for air. Or, is that blood? The substance that trickles down the side of his face, sticky and warm? It envelops the line of his jaw like a tender lover. Like devoted fingers caressing the pain that florescences on the soft side of his skull. He needs the nails to puncture the bone. Seep into the tissue of his brain and remove the anguish that festers like a bad wound. 

A great roaring volume drowns out his senses as hands paw at his chest. He’s shaken like someone attempting to rouse their child from slumber but he doesn’t want to wake up. He needs to seep into the concrete. Liquify and soak into the cold, unforgiving ground, but he won’t. The hands dragging him by his vest refuse to allow it. He can’t die because someone wills it otherwise. Then comes the metal. Tongs and needles; scalpels that slice and tear; saws that grind marrow into dust — it hurts worse than the impact. Worse than an entry wound that bubbles and flattens into a cavern nothing can reach.

When he opens his eyes, there’s nothing but white. Walls, linen, clothes; it’s a blank canvas for him to paint on, and yet he can’t see the image. Gentle shapes and sounds, he tries to remember his cousin’s name but can’t. Wants to shape his mouth into the word but his tongue has forgotten the dance. He can’t remember the number assigned to him when he used to play keeper in football. The memory of his mother’s voice is distorted. Something is broken about his father’s face. He can hardly recall the name of the man always at his bedside. 

Ghost. Is that it? Weird bloke with the mask and dark eyes. There’s vague memories about him. Good ones. Ghost barks at the nurses and doctors who come to see him, always questioning what they’re doing. Why they’re injecting him with certain things. Johnny watches him. Thick fingers clench and relax like waves along the coastline. There is more to his name. It’s shrouded in fuzzy memories. Wading through the static, he plucks the word and lets it sit on his tongue until he’s able to get the useless muscle to move. 

“Simon?” 

Things hurt more after he says that word. That name. Calls upon the devil; sells his soul to a demon with dark eyes and lips that can’t properly curl anymore because of the scar tissue. He fights. Shreds skin with sharp teeth. Doesn’t care who the skin belongs to. Johnny’s regressed. Gone backwards in evolution. Has turned into nothing more than a bad dog locked in a cage, left alone to lick his wounds. Only the clink of his collar keeps him company. 

But the only thing that makes a dog bad isn’t because they bite or bark — it’s that they’re scared. Confused. He flails and howls lamenting cries as he tries to make sense of the collar and cage, or why his name seems to be something he can’t recapture. The only thing that’s there, repeating in his mind like a broken record, is the bullet. Gunshot ringing loud, lead ripping through his cranium; all he knows how to do is fight. Fight dirty. Fight hard. Slicing claws, bared teeth; something in him still craves blood. Still covets the taste of iron in his mouth. 

That desire is siphoned out of him. Drawn free from his body until not a single drop remains. It breaks down and decays in his body until there’s only fuzz left. A distorted reality. Things are better this way. Happier. Now, there’s nothing but that collar and cage and Simon and Simon and Simon and Simon —

“Fuckin’ hell, Soap, wake up!” 

Instead of the unforgiving metal bars of a kennel, Johnny feels a plush mattress. Sheets and blankets twist up his legs like ivy reclaiming some man made structure — something that doesn’t belong — and his limbs thrash in an attempt to free himself. He’s restrained. Thick arms wrap around his torso, pinning his appendages to his chest. Lips press against the shell of his ear as Simon grunts in frustration, attempting to hold his misbehaving dog down. 

“Easy now, easy. Down boy,” he murmurs. 

“Ah need tae go home,” Johnny rambles, hands pawing at Simon’s forearms. His chest heaves. Rib cage expanding just to crush right back into his lungs as he exhales, throat constricting like it suddenly feels the weight of the collar around it. “Need tae go home.” 

Simon shushes him. Demanding fingers grip Johnny’s forearms as he pulls him closer. He’s become a living straight jacket. Yanking back on his mutt’s leash until he calms. Until the storm passes.  

“You are home. Home with me, ‘member?” Simon attempts to coddle. The softness is foreign to his voice, but he tries anyway. “Look, even Bonnie’s here. Yeah? Your sweet bird? Look at ‘er. Look at ‘er, Johnny.” 

Confused eyes peer through the darkness until he finds you standing to the side of the bed, your back against the wall. Your parted lips look heavenly in the dull glow of the moon seeping through the windows, and he finds his heart quelling in his chest. Then he looks at your eyes. Wide as saucers. Dilated. Chest heaving. Breath escaping you. 

“Yeah, you see ‘er now. You’re home with me. Home with Bonnie. Better now?” Simon asks. 

“Ah still feel it. Digging ‘round in mah fuckin’ skull,” Johnny babbles, feet still kicking at the cloth that holds his legs hostage. His teeth grit so tightly he can hardly get the words to flow between them. 

“Need ya to relax, Johnny,” Simon huffs. Frustrated eyes glare at you, and your throat visibly bobs as he motions for you to come back to the bed. “Want Bonnie to help?”

Following Simon’s orders, you crawl onto the mattress. You shuffle along on your hands and knees, head bowed low but your eyes stay on the men in front of you like they’ll bite if you don’t. Johnny sees the trepidation that lurks in your gaze. Can nearly smell it as it collects like sweat on your skin. He doesn’t like it. That fear in your eyes. Are you scared of him? Why do you look at him like that? 

“Good girl, Bonnie,” Simon praises flatly. Without warning, his hand dives into Johnny’s boxers where he greedily palms at his cock. It’s still soft, having no chance to harden, and yet Simon is unrelenting. Johnny feels the urge to jolt, to fight back against the stimulation as he watches you sit back on your haunches, bottom lip quivering. “You want ‘er, dontcha boy? ‘Course you do. You picked ‘er out and everything. Doesn’t she make ya feel better? Feel at home?” 

There’s a dull buzz in the back of Johnny’s mind that attempts to rewire his brain. To slice away the coax seal and bare the metal cords to the damp air of his skull. To weave things until the pain stops. Until things make sense. But that buzz wanes and dies as his cock begins to harden and he becomes drunk on Simon’s words and the way he tugs at him. When he looks back at you, you are excited. Body quivering with anticipation, on your knees waiting for him like there’s nothing else in the world that can satiate your desire but him. 

“Aye. Ah do,” Johnny groans. 

Simon smirks against his ear. 

“Good boy. Go fetch.” 

Johnny eats you alive after that. Takes you while you’re face first into the mattress, cock pumping into your cunt at an abusive pace. You cry this time. You’ve been good about keeping it bottled inside, tears along with it, but seeing him screaming in his sleep has your anxiety high. Watching him thrash like that, curse, and beg. Like he had been possessed. Like he was somebody else. Fear courses through you like it’s the only component that builds the cells of your blood. Guttural sobs and wails are muffled by the way Simon shoves your face into the bedding and barks at you to quiet down. You are thankful that this time he fucks you on the bed. There’s no unforgiving wood to press into your palms or the side of your face as you grieve into the blankets. Still, it hurts all the same. Your cervix splits and bruises, walls stretched impossibly wide as he pistons into you, ripping you apart from the inside. 

He feasts on your cries. Mumbles that you sound so beautiful, moaning like that. 

All for him. 

When Johnny’s finished, he goes back to sleep. Curls around you like a devoted dog, arms lazily slung over you — nothing but dead weight. Before long, both men are snoring while you sniffle and writhe. There is no sleep to be had, not with the wounds that plague you. After so much time spent in the den of these beasts, you were hoping that your skin would become thicker. Calluses would form from use, and eventually this agony would remit. But scars can’t form if you don’t allow the wound to heal, and Simon is all too willing to tear at the scab until you’re bleeding all over again. 

He likes the taste of brine and iron. 

Morning comes and you still haven’t slept. 

It was a foolish idea to believe you could have. Laying with monstrous men and listening to the rattle of their breathing keeps you awake worse than any creature that could go bump in the night. You promise yourself you’ll sleep when they’re awake. You’ll sleep when Simon’s hands are busy working away at the garden and Johnny’s drawing sketches of your motionless body. It’s easier to rest when the sun is up. When you can open your eyes and make sense of your surroundings and not be swallowed by darkness and terror. 

Simon is the first to rise. He always is. Even the sun lags behind him in sputtering rays as he slinks out of the room. His movement is enough to rouse Johnny who finally relinquished his grasp on you in favor of turning to lay on his stomach. You breathe easier without the weight of his arm on your chest, but it does nothing to quell the ache that still burns in the pit of your stomach. That never-healing wound. That scar which will never quite mend. 

You stir when you hear the shower begin to run. Its creaky faucet strains against the old pipes, squealing as the liquid shoots through it. Lifting yourself up, you muffle your groans behind gritted teeth as you slip off the side of the bed. You’ve gotten good at being quiet. Soft as a mouse trotting through rotten walls. As silent as the flap of an owl’s wings in the dead of night. Even as you dress — fresh cloth pulling over soiled skin — there’s nothing, not even a peep, out of you. Johnny huffs, body missing your presence. You ignore him as you leave the bedroom. 

Morning birds chirp in your willow tree. You’ve decided it’s your tree. Beautiful branches, dancing leaves — Simon has Johnny, and Johnny has you, isn’t it only fair that you have something of your own? Finches chatter as they buzz from branch to branch, excited feet scurrying as they chase one another. They peck and chew at berries and nuts they’ve foraged in the bountiful forest that lay beyond the property, and you stand in front of the window for a moment watching them. 

They force an old memory to resurface. Something from when you were a child. A science class lecture that’s been buried in the grey matter of your brain for so long it had almost gotten lost. Evolutionary pressure. Finches are an example of this. Darwin’s finches, especially. They’re diverse. Changing for better survival. There are some with fat, wide beaks, others with small, dainty growths. Animals evolve fast to adapt and survive. To endure the earth and her cruel games. 

You wonder if you could test this on yourself. Stress your body to the point it has no choice but to morph into something stronger. Something better. If you climbed to the top of this house, or the ridge of those trees, and jumped, would you survive? Would your body scream and cry out for you to change and sprout wings before you hit the ground? Before you’re caught in Johnny’s maw for good? Is this just some foolish notion? Would you just shatter on the pavement below? 

Your sigh mixes with the chirping, free and sovereign. Either way, it would not be an issue for you anymore if you failed. Your wounds would never heal, but you’d be too dead to care about it. 

Simon’s shower turns off with a squeak and the sound snaps you back to reality. This is all a facade. You are not a bird, you are not a woman, you are a pet — nothing more. 

Knowing breakfast is soon to follow, you preemptively wander toward the dining room. If there is one thing to be grateful for in this meticulously crafted hell of yours, it is that you are well fed. There is no such thing as going hungry under Simon’s careful watch. He is not a good man — a good person — but he at least knows how to take care of his pets. You turn into the room —

— there is a gun on the table. 

Solvent hangs faintly in the air next to bottles of cleaners and old toothbrushes that dot the tabletop. It’s the same set up you recall seeing a few weeks back when Simon cleaned his rifle — when he reminded you that hunting season is fast approaching — but there is no rifle on the table. A hand gun sits in its place, resting on its side, aimed toward the wall. It’s not gutted. Each spring and screw lies perfectly in place. Primed. Ready to kill. 

It’s a proper handgun. At least, you think it is. Not one of the six shooters you always see portrayed in old American Western films. It’s deadly. Something officers or Army men would use. Your stomach sinks as you approach it, like it’ll decide to discharge from a mere glance alone. Sleek black metal covers the frame and grip, making it all look uniform, save for some wear and tear scratches. Some of the scratches look deep — long and gnarly gashes like the item itself had been through hell and back. You reach a hand out, floating and careful; your fingertips brush against the grip; wary, like it’ll bite.

“Shouldn’t be touchin’ that.” 

Retracting your hand, you jump as Simon’s voice cuts through the air with as much venom as a viper. You step back as your eyes jump to look at him. Shirtless, skin still freshly wet, he stands like a drowned barbarian as he stares at you. An apology bubbles up in your throat, but you won’t let it escape. You keep it trapped in your larynx as he slowly approaches with feet more quiet than you could ever wish to be. 

“Ever seen one before?” he asks. He crowds you, forces you back another step as he reaches for the pistol. Large hands dwarf the metal frame as he turns it over in his palm, showing it off. “A gun like this?” 

You shake your head. Knives are plenty common in England, but handguns? Something other than a hunting rifle? You thought handguns were banned. Though, Simon’s never been one to shy away from illegal acts. 

“Yeah. Didn’t think so. Fittin’ for a civilian,” he chuckles with crass humor. 

Simon does something unthinkable — he hands you the gun. 

There’s nothing but care as he holds it out, grip faced toward you, muzzle off to the side pointing at neither of you. Your heart leaps into your throat, swells in your esophagus, and then throbs. All you can do is stare. It stares back. Screams at you. You’re all too aware that this item acts not only as your executioner, but as your ticket out of this place. 

“Take it,” he urges. 

Like always, you obey. It feels too thick in your palm, and when he lets go, it’s heavy, much more than you could have anticipated it to be. Everyone in the movies always wields them so flippantly — as if they’re light as air — but the weight it holds screams its deadly intent. Simon’s fingers brush against you, adjusting your grip, and you try not to grimace at the feeling of his skin and tainted metal against your hand. 

“Is it loaded?” you question. You don’t know why you ask it. Maybe you want to know so you can be wary. To not hurt yourself. Or maybe you want to know so you can see if the risk raging in the back of your mind is worth taking. 

“Dunno,” Simon shrugs. Once more, he repositions you. Gently prods your hand higher and higher, elbow bent, muzzle resting against your temple. Maneuvers your pointer finger until it’s hooked around the trigger. A dead woman walking, he forces you to stand there with the gun to your head. “Wanna find out?” 

What a cruel world this is. The earth with her singing birds and sprouting flowers and bright blue skies, and you’ve hardly been able to enjoy any of it. All it has been is pain, and here you are wondering if you’ll ever get the chance to heal from it. Your heart thumps like an amateur drummer; without sense and rhythm. It demands to be heard. Forces you to listen to his cacophonous melody as it drowns the rush of blood in your ears. Your finger twitches, and the trigger gives way, but not enough for anything to happen. 

“C’mon. We’ll get you matchin’ with Johnny, huh? Ugly fuckin’ scar on the side of your head.” As he says it, he eyes the spot where the mouth of the gun meets your trembling flesh. He says it like he’s already imagining the gaping hole. “Pull the trigger, Bonnie.” 

It can’t be loaded. You’re certain of it. There’s no way he would leave something that dangerous around within reach. But it’s so heavy. As if it’s crammed to the brim with bullets ready to riddle your body full of holes. Your breathing stutters. Seizes the muscles of your chest and forces them to jitter. You stare at Simon’s chest. Nothing but pale, thick skin stares back at you. If you pull the trigger, you might paint him red. Red and pink and yellow. You wonder if that’s what he wants. If the feeling of water never feels as warm or embracing to him as fresh blood does. 

“I told you to pull the fuckin’ trigger.” 

Panic writhes in your stomach — you don’t want to die yet. 

Click!

The hammer strikes against nothing and dry fires. It rings louder than the terror in your mind and the vibrations that rattle your trembling body as your arm gives out, gun lowering away from your head. Of course it’s empty. How stupid of you to think of anything different. Simon would never allow you to leave before he’s ready to let go. 

When Simon laughs, your stomach lurches so fiercely you nearly vomit. Once you’re able to force yourself to face him, you’re met with the largest smile you’ve ever seen him wear. Crooked teeth sit between scarred lips as he swipes the gun out of your limp fingers. Taking a step back, he nods; utterly amused. It isn’t long before that sneer wipes off of his face and he’s back to wearing that biting, stoic expression he always does. 

“Atta girl,” he huffs. 

Sliding the gun into the waistband of his sweatpants, Simon saunters past you into the kitchen, leaving you to stand alone next to the table. Unstable knees nearly give out as your palms slap against the top, slowly dragging your body into a rickety chair. It hurts to sit, soreness jolting through your core with unforgiving electricity, but you refuse to make a sound. You sit there with tears welling in your eyes as you try to forget the way deadly metal feels in your hand. 

This is Simon’s greatest round of torture yet. He’s given you the keys meant to aid in your escape, but he’s changed all the locks. You bite into your bottom lip to get it to stop quivering. After living here, you’ve learned pain is the best enforcer. Only, it doesn’t quite work as well when it’s self-inflicted. 

Another click sounds, and you wince at it. Holding your breath, you wait for something else to follow — a sonic boom, a scream, a death rattle — but the only thing you hear is the sizzling of bacon on a hot pan as Simon prepares breakfast.

omfg

Neighbor!Simon who can't help but roll his eyes the moment he hears the annoying peppy music play at exactly 9:30 every morning through the paper thin walls.

Though he's already been up for hours he missed being able to enjoy his coffee and newspaper quietly.

Simon hearing the bumping and thudding as you get ready for your day and slamming the door on your way out.

Hearing you every time talk on the phone, laughing loudly and talking a million miles a minute.

You getting excited after the multiple failures to strike up a conversation, he finally tells you his name.

Knowing when you came back home by the smell of your dinner wafting through the air vents. He can't deny it made his stomach ache as he munched on his leftover takeout.

His silent appreciation of how you become silent at a decent hour, seemingly out of respect for the quiet hours of the building.

Holding his breath whenever he opening the doors and whispering a prayer hoping not to run into you again and get held hostage in a thirty minute conversation.

How he has begun to memorize your schedule from the types of sounds resonating from your unit so he could dodge you in the halls.

He had to stop using the apartment gym after learning your enjoyment of the treadmill to blow off steam after a long day

As well as your habit of forgetting your headphones causing you to chatter about nonsense the whole time.

Resorting to running a few blocks around the neighborhood instead.

One day jogging his route and catching you in the corner of his eye, hanging on the arm of some guy, around the corner of the building

The irritation rising in him as he considered the noises he would be hearing tonight.

Coming home and taking a shower. When he shuts off the water he hears more noises from across the wall. He can hear you... crying?

He remains still as he hears you sob in your own bathroom, mumbling incoherently to yourself, followed by a few sniffles then starting the shower.

Him, unable to control the pang of sympathy that tightens his chest.

Starting to feel bad about the constant avoidance he decides to let himself be caught up in your conversation in the hallway.

Going to the gym but only on rainy days, and letting you yap on about your friends and how work was going.

Feeling excited when he recognizes a song through the shared wall. Maybe it wasn't that annoying.

One night hearing more strange noises while he sits reading a book in bed.

He hears a quiet whimpering making him feel bad again as it gradually grows louder.

Realizing the whimpering is not from tears when he can make a distinct word clearly slip through the layers of drywall and paint. separating your bed from his.

"S-simon.."

━━━━⊱♡⊰━━━━

A/N: Consider this a 2.5 part to my neighbor!Simon series so far. If this is sloppy I apologize, I am two glasses of wine deep on an empty stomach. I needed to put out something. Simon has been haunting me. Also, I'm sorry part two is taking so long. My mother-in-law has been in town and it's hard to get writing done when there is an extra guest in the house. If you want to be added to a taglist lmk! I believe I am 3/4 done with part two now. <3

Girls That Hate Cops and Buy Guns.

tags: fae!Soap x f!reader, gun play, stalking, ghoul brand magical bullshit, threats of violence, cnc kink exploitation, Soap is a rabid dog that should be put down, 2nd pov, reader is mentioned to be US American(sorry), minor mention of reader's eyes, smut baiting... sorry about that.

He knows you're home, can smell you, feel you moving through the apartment. His hands press against the locked door, his breathing deep as he tries to absorb the subtle scent of your home leaking through the cracks of the apartment door. He's been coming back here for days, following you home, biding his time, trying to convince himself not to force his way inside, not to mince the tumblers in your lock. The thought of you makes his teeth itch, makes his mouth water at the sight of your skin, the way you tip your head, the length of you neck. All on display for him as you work behind Price's bar, he just knows it.

It's hunger that gnaws at him, that forces his feet forward, that's stirring in his belly every time you pass him a drink. That tinge of inspiration makes his mouth water. Something in your fae-touched eyes that looks at him and knows exactly what to serve makes him feel like he's starving. He needs a new artist, and you're such a perfect fit. He just needs to get his hooks in you, and you'll fill him up. He won't be hungry anymore with you sitting in his stomach. He knows it. This time it'll be different. He won't pump too much inspiration into you, won't clog your brain too much. He can get it right this time, he won't suffocate you under his need this time.

The lock clicks, his magic invading every crack in the wooden door, filling in gaps that soak into the grooves, that make the screws loosen around the hinges. He feels the ache of the forest, the cries of the lumber now quiet. He's so hungry.

Your flat is dark. The soft light of the streetlamps filtering in through the windows where your blinds haven't been shut tight enough. There's light under your bedroom door, warm and welcoming. He follows it like a moth to a flame, his fingers ache for you, desperate to sink into your flesh, to tear at your heart, to make a home for himself in the recesses of your mind and carve and carve and carve until there's nothing left. Price warned him to stay away from his new bartender, but how could he? It was like dangling a steak in front of a starving wolf and hoping it wouldn't bite.

You ooze inspiration, all you need is a muse.

Something metal presses against the back of his head. Cold steel. It burns through the short hair on his head, dizzying iron and carbon with every intention to kill. Soap's blood burns hot, thrums through his veins with every beat of his heart, his muscles shaking with something closer to desire than fear. He can feel the annoyance radiating off of you, the flaring violence that tugs at your fingers and presses the muzzle of your gun harder against his skull. It's exciting. You might kill him.

"What are you doing in my house?" You ask behind him. There's no fear in your voice, the question flat, the score easily settled. You have the weapon, and he's broken a rule. Trespassing. How rude. It shivers through him, the indifference that carries you, that presses the barrel of a gun against his skin and bubbles iron against his skull.

"Where did you get that?" He asks, cocking his head. It drags the metal over his skin, the burn trailing from one point to the next. The metal digs into the thin skin, painful. No, it's excruciating. He wants more, wants to feel the way your nails would claw at his flesh, feel you drag iron over his broken skin. It shudders down his spine, thinking of all the ways you could hurt him. It makes his mouth water. He wonders if you'll pull the trigger. Heat rolls through his stomach.

"Brought it from home," There's a smile in your voice, barely there but enough to make his cock twitch. The cock of the hammer sends his blood rushing south, the venom in your smile as you press the barrel a little harder against him. "Worse monsters than you in the states, but I figure the method of disposal is the same."

"Ya think a bullet'll take me oot?"

"I'm willing to try it." You hum. He wants to hurt you back, wants to feel your blood squelch under his teeth, feel your skin warm under his hand, poke at the bruises he leaves... He wants to make you feel- feel anything really. He wants your attention, however he gets it. "Why are you here?" You question, finally hitting on the curiosity he's felt burning at the edge of your words.

"I want you," He says plainly. There's no way to convey the ache in his blood, the song of pain you're inspiring, in just three words, so he doesn't try. He turns his head, lets the muzzle drag over his skin, burning a path through his hair, through the thin muscle over his skull. You won't shoot him, he doesn't think, or you would have already. He manages to get all the way around, his body following the path of least resistance to face you.

Your brows twitch, your lips set in a grimace, watching the burn of his skin around the steel of your gun. You try to move it away and he catches your hand, pressing his harder against his forehead. He hadn't realized he was panting, that seeing the white, full moon, of your eyes would make his cock hurt. He grips your other hand when you try to push him away, pressing it hard against his aching cock. You flinch, your hips jumping, your fingers curling. The feeling of him...

Didn't you know? He's enjoying this.

"You've been following me," You try a different route, his eyes fluttering as he ruts against your hand. You swallow, you don't think the gun still burning the skin on his forehead is the threat you'd hoped it would be.

"Want ta lick your pretty cunt," He growls, his teeth bared, he yanks your hand keeping you in place when you cringe away from his voice, "Wanna fuck ya 'til you're bleedin', beggin' me ta stop." You can feel the twitch of his cock through his pants. He feels big. Heat tingles between your legs, your underwear suddenly pressed too close, the seam of your shorts catching against your clit as you shift on your feet. You feel like all your senses have been forced to high alert with just a few words.

"Someone should put you down," You glare.

"Ah wish you fuckin' would." He groans, his eyes electric even in the dark, "Wish you'd pull that fuckin' trigger, give me a reason to rip those little shorts off ya." You look away from him, your cheeks are burning. The threat makes you want to squirm as much as it chills you. "Knew ya'd like that, dirty birdie."

"I'm calling Price," You tell him after a deep breath. Soap blinks, something in his eyes sliding a little off kilter.

"Don't." He warns. You stick your tongue out at him, almost as quickly as he lets go of your hand to try and grab between your legs. You see his victorious smile, his fingers brushing over the wet spot on your shorts, at the same time you say his boss's full name.

You smell cigar smoke as soon as the last syllable leaves your lips, see a big hand grab the back of Soap's neck to pull him away from you. The air is seething with anger.

"Tryin' to have a nice night with the Missus," Price growls, "and you're causin' trouble."

"Ahm naw-"

"Save it," Price barks, he tips his head your way, a silent acknowledgement, before his anger is turned on Soap again, "Told ya to keep away from my staff, mutt."

Soap casts a pleading look your way before both of them disappear. Smoke settles heavy on the floor where the fae once stood. You finally let yourself lower your weapon, letting the shivering in your muscles overtake you as you try to find your way back to lock your door.

A Dichotomy of Thought || Masterlist

Ghoap/reader—You move next door to a disabled veteran and his troubled partner. You have troubles of your own.

Part One—Johnny almost dies

Part Two—You give Simon five minutes

Part Three—You light a cigarette

Part Four—Johnny has a seizure

Part Five—Simon makes tea

Part Six—Simon and Johnny argue

Part Seven—Johnny finds a purpose

Part Eight—Poker Night

Part Nine

this is basically my ‘to read next’ list, thank you for the food 🙏🙏

for all of us who can't bear to read anything but CoD fanfiction (due to the 141's fat tits) do you have any all-time favs?

Such an awful, sick affliction. I made one of these lists a while back but couldn't find it so you’re in luck because I have plenty of favorites and I’m happy to share them (in no particular order. I KNOW I'm forgetting at least ten fics I've read and loved but I have a goldfish brain today, forgive me):

And please, read the tags/warnings. Your consumption is your own responsibility.

Neon Medusa Too sweet not to share Ghost and Red Fox Alford plea The Willow Maid Exfiltration The Arrangement Civilian Asset See no evil Squeeze me I squeak MildLimerence Mine & Yours Saltwater Metanoia to you I can admit (that I'm too soft for all of it) white flag blood on my shirt, rose in my hand totally platonic Surviving you imprimatura Dog all that's said in the lowlight birdsongs or advice and symphonies for your children Happiness songs that sound like sea foam down to the marrow roommate gaz Chink in the Armour Man-sized Hummingbird don't leave me locked in your heart Listening In Situationship-verse The Scottish Cabin in the Woods

Additions to this list as of June 12

Spoils of War Where Your Feet Pass Neighborly and/or not The Rear Window jigsaws pictures in frames, kisses on cheeks sirius c Spoils Cabin Fever / part one lotus flower the lies we tell Who Dares Win babytrap anthology The Hard Way Of Sea Foam and Iron bury me beneath the basswood tree Wicked Harvest Tiger balm baby blue Keeper/Kept Something Sweet Stay Away appetite

Hello, how are you? I hope you are well. I am Seline from Gaza. I started this campaign to raise money to help me rebuild my family's life after losing everything in Gaza😥. All that remains of our house is the rubble and our memories that have turned to ash💔. My family and I barely escaped with our lives, leaving behind everything we owned. Now, we are in Egypt, struggling to rebuild our lives from scratch. The war left us with nothing but the clothes we wear and the painful memories of what we lost We need your help to find a safe place to live, to provide for our children, and to start over🥺.

With your support, we can restore our hope and rebuild our family's future. 🤍

Please consider donating to our campaign🙏🏻.

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Title: Wendigo Disorder.

Pairing: Yandere!Sukuna x Reader (JJK).

Word Count: 5.0k.

Written for a very lovely anonymous commissioner.

TW: Non/Con, Fem!Reader, Cannibalism, No Curse AU, Chef Sukuna AU, Oral Sex, Unhealthy Relationships, Kidnapping, Gore, Physical + Psychological Abuse, Unbalanced Power Dynamics, and Prolonged Captivity. Dead Dove: Do Not Eat.

Sukuna kept the basement door locked.

That was the only part of his rustic, oversized house that was off-limits to you. For the first few weeks, he’d kept you either collared and leashed to the headboard of his bed if he was home and locked in a roughly human-sized dog kennel when he wasn’t, but now, you were allowed to wander freely, even if he still kept deadbolts on the windows and doors. Occasionally, he’d lock you out of the kitchen while he was working on a new recipe or tell you to stay in your bedroom while he talked to his every-mysterious “business partners”, but for a kidnapper, Sukuna was surprisingly trusting. The basement door was the only thing that was always locked – and you should know. You checked the knob at least twice a day.

It wasn’t that he was afraid of you escaping, or hurting yourself, or god forbid, hurting him. Even in the early days, before you’d proved you weren’t going to run away, he seemed to be more concerned that you might be a nuisance than that you might be any kind of threat. The only thing you really knew was that the basement was where he kept his meat locker, and while you were curious, you were sure that wasn’t what he was keeping you away from. Sukuna had you sample everything he made. If he was going to start withholding food, then he would’ve had to—

“Oi, brat.” You felt his elbow jab into your side, drawing you out of your thoughts. “Quit daydreaming and try this.”

You glanced towards him, pouting as you straightened your back and repositioned yourself on the kitchen counter. You would’ve been more comfortable to sit on the floor, or better yet, at the table in the next room, but he liked to have you as close as possible whenever he was cooking. Not that you’d have it any other way. “You’re always so mean to me,” you sighed, in a pitchy mock whine. “One day, I’m not going to want to spend time with you at all.”

“As if. You can’t get enough of me.” He rolled his eyes, turning back to the stove top. Currently, he was working on something for his restaurant – a variation on karaage, a spread of vegetables and meat (pork, maybe, but you weren’t entirely sure) sitting on a cutting board off to the side, a greased skillet waiting next to it. His attention was on the broth simmering in the pot in front of him, though, which his ingredients would strew in before being fried. He’d been toying with it for the better part of an hour, and you’d sat diligently within arm’s reach, only slightly motivated by the fact that he’d threatened to break both your ankles if you tried to move.

Your sample turned out to be a piece of broccoli – likely chosen to best compliment the flavor of the broth – and you accepted it eagerly, letting Sukuna bring his chopsticks to your lips and feed you by-hand. Of course, the flavor was heavenly, and of course, you took long seconds to savor it, letting your eyes fall shut as you chewed and swallowed. Sukuna watched you intently, his dark eyes never leaving your lips. It wasn’t a secret that his favorite part of you had always been your mouth. You didn’t mind – his cooking was the only thing you’d ever liked about him.

Praise would’ve been pointless. It was a given that anything he made would be the best thing you’d ever tasted, so you tried to focus on something more productive. “It’s… salty,” you surmised, pursing your lips. “Did you use your…?”

“Cum?” Sukuna finished. “Just a tablespoon. ‘m surprised you can even taste it.”

A month ago, you might’ve recoiled, refused to eat, but now, it was all you could do to pretend to be surprised.

You watched intently as he added another cup of water, another round of herbs all kept in mismatched, unlabeled jars. Your heart skipped a beat as he finally reached towards the cutting board, but he pulled away at the last minute, turning to you, instead.

“’kuna,” you whined as he slid into the space between your legs, planting a large hand on either side of you. “I was actually hoping to eat sometime tonight, y’know.”

“I know, I know.” And yet, he didn’t seem concerned, chuckling as he buried his face in the crook of your neck, pressing an open-mouthed kiss into the base of your throat. “You’ll get to, just sit pretty for a little while longer.”

“But—” He cut you off with another kiss, this one immediately followed by feeling of his pointed canines burrowing into tender skin. You flinched into yourself, and Sukuna groaned into your neck, drawing back just far enough to run the flat of his tongue over the twin puncture marks.  Your hands shot to his shoulders, but you resisted the urge to push him away. Even if you did, it was already too late; you could feel something stiff pressing against the inside of your thigh, hear him murmuring something low and affectionate into the dip of your shoulder. Resigned, you leaned back against the kitchen cabinets and shut your eyes.

At least, if he got this over with quickly enough, you might still get to eat.

~

Your first impression of Sukuna, unsurprisingly, was that he looked more like a body builder than a chef.

Calling him massive would’ve been an understatement. He stood a head above you, with biceps as thick as your head and a chest so defined, you could see the outline of his definition through the thin fabric of his black (presumably not Health and Safety compliant) tank top. He had piercings, too – twin studs underneath his bottom lip, lining the bridge of his nose – and tattoos, black lines forming intricate patterns across his jawline and bands around his wrist. You already had your back to the concrete wall, but you pressed yourself against it, regardless, eager to put as much space between you and him as possible. Sukuna remained where he was, perpetually unimpressed.

His introduction was brief, succinct. “You’re the little bitch Uraume sent out?”

“I… I think so?” You genuinely weren’t sure. The waitress had only told you that the owner wanted to talk to you outside, which you hadn’t been surprised by. It was your fourth time coming in that week, since his restaurant didn’t do takeout and the last person to order more than they could eat in one sitting was promptly and proudly taken outside and beaten half to death. You couldn’t risk that, not when more than half of your meals came from his shop.  “I’m sorry, I just—Are you the chef? I really like—”

“Shut the fuck up.” He took half a step toward you, and you glanced down the alleyway behind his restaurant. One end was cut off with a chain-link fence, and while the other side opened up onto a proper road, it was still more than fifty feet away. You never would’ve made it, not with someone like Sukuna chasing you. “Who sent you? The Gojo clan?”

Sent you? You had no idea what he was talking about – if you had someone to fund your addiction, you wouldn’t have to resign yourself the cheapest section of his overpriced menu. You opened your mouth, but must’ve taken longer to answer than you realized. You blinked, and suddenly, his hand was planted on the wall beside your head, his body only a hair’s width from yours. He had to tilt his head forward to look at you, which while not surprising, did little to comfort you. “Answer the fucking question.” And then, when you shrunk into yourself at his tone. “I swear to fucking Christ—Did he tell you what happens to the people who piss me off? Because you’re about to—”

“I can’t eat anything else!”

You were just as surprised as he was to hear your own voice. Still, you did your best to recover quickly, falling into a stiff bow as deep as the confined space would allow. With your eyes fixed on the pavement, you forced yourself to go on, to say something that would stop the owner of your favorite restaurant from murdering you in the alleyway behind that aforementioned restaurant. “I—I’m sorry for taking up so much of your time, but—but a classmate brought me here a few months ago, and—and I haven’t been able to eat anywhere else since. I can come in less often, if that’s what you’re bothered by, but please.” You forced yourself to inhale, to breathe. “Please, don’t ban me.”

At that, Sukuna broke. You didn’t dare to look at him, but you could hear the smirk in his voice, the airy laugh lacing his tone, as if he found something about your desperation funny. He did, obviously. You’d quickly realize that Sukuna found most things about you funny. “You think I’m going to… What was it? Ban you?”

You nodded furiously. “I—I know you kicked out that salaryman last week, and a couple students the week before. They were all regulars, but I haven’t seen any of them since.” It was a rushed explanation, only half-coherent, but you still tried to go on, bowing your head. “I—I can’t cook, and I can’t eat anywhere else, anymore. If you ban me, I really don’t have a lot of other options, so—”

“You can go back to your table.”

It was your turn to blink, this time, to startle. You didn’t straighten your back, not until you felt Sukuna’s hand on your shoulder, heard the grin in his voice sharpen. “Really?”

“Mhm. Don’t order, I’ll send something over. And you’re going to stay until closing.” And then, as you stared up at him with as much gratitude you’d ever felt, “We’re going to grab a couple drinks after I close up shop. Try to think of a few more compliments, before then.”

It wasn’t a question, but you nodded regardless. After scurrying back to your table before Sukuna could change his mind, a white-haired woman who you’d never seen working the front of house before brought you a meat dish so rare, you could’ve sworn it hadn’t been cooked at all.

It went without saying that you savored every bite.

~

“Needy ass brat.”

His bicep dug into your stomach where you were slung over his shoulder, your legs dangling uselessly was your hands clawed half-heartedly at his back. You weren’t really upset that he’d caught you – you knew it’d only be a matter of time the moment you slipped out of bed – but it was frustrating just how quickly he’d come to get you. You’d barely gotten to the kitchen, let alone the fridge.

Your mind drifted back to the basement door – to the meat locker. Somewhere in the back of your mind, you decided that you would try to pick the lock tomorrow, after he’d left for the day. Whatever punishment he’d dull out would be worth it, if you could actually get in.

Unceremoniously, you were dumped onto the floor of his bedroom, left to shamble to your knees as he collapsed onto the foot of the bed. You moved to stand, but Sukuna was quick to catch you by the hair and force you back down. “Disobedient, too,” he muttered, his voice still rough with exhaustion. “Tell me what you were trying to do before I decide you can’t be trusted with the ability to walk.”

You sulked, letting out a shallow sigh and resting your cheek against the inside of his knee. “I’m just hungry,” you explained, feigning thoughtlessness. It was more or less true. You were eating better than you ever had before, and yet, your stomach had never felt emptier. “I was gonna come back, after I got something.”

Sukuna chuckled, running his fingers through your hair. You melted into his thigh, eager to keep his mood light, sentimental. “I feed you three gourmet meals a day, baby. Don’t act like you’re starving.”

“But I am.” You sighed, stared up at him with your doe-like expression. “I’ve really been craving meat, lately, ‘specially that stuff you keep downstairs. Can you make it again tomorrow?”

“We’ll see. I don’t want you getting spoiled, and ‘sides, I’ve gotta save some of it for the shop.” You frowned, sinking deeper into his thigh, and Sukuna sighed, raking his nails over your scalp. “But, maybe, if I got some motivation from my little helper…”

He trailed off, and suddenly, it was your turn to play oblivious. “Well, yeah, I’d obviously help,” you chirped, mimicking his smile. “I’m not very good in the kitchen, though, so you can’t blame me if—”

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

You felt something tighten in your chest. It wasn’t painful, but the way his fingers tugged at your hair was.

He didn’t pull. You tried to be thankful for that, but it was hard to be thankful for anything when his free hand was already at the waistband of his sweats, freeing the semi-stiff cock formerly hidden beneath the grey fabric. You frowned, but didn’t pull away. “How are you already hard?” And then, as you settled onto your knees, “You woke up, like, two minutes ago.”

“Always gotta have something nice n’ warm ready for my baby.” Rather than let your whining deter him, he focused on drawing you into his lap, encouraging you to lean into him, to brace yourself on his muscular thighs. Controlling as always, Sukuna guided you gently towards his cock. You half-expected him to force you down at the last minute, to laugh as he suffocated you on his length, but of course, he didn’t. He wasn’t that kind.

He wouldn’t let you play such a passive role in your own dehumanization.

You moved as quickly as you could without making your unwillingness entirely transparent, taking the head of his cock past your lips and running the flat of your tongue over his slit (already leaking, as if this couldn’t get any worse). You couldn’t pretend to be some pure-of-heart, dewy eyed virgin, not when most of your mornings were started with Sukuna thrusting three fingers lazily into your cunt and most of your nights ended with his face buried between your thighs, but you never seemed to be able to completely brace yourself for just how wide you had to open your mouth to take him, just how mindful you had to be to not let your teeth scrape against his shaft as you struggled to get past his tip. Like everything else about Sukuna, his cock was too fucking big. Not that he seemed to care.

If anything, Sukuna seemed to like the way you gagged around him. As you wrapped a hand around his base, pumping over the parts of his shaft you couldn’t swallow and trying to ignore the fact that your fingers didn’t touch, you heard him groan, felt his grip tighten on your hair, and knew he was staring at you, drinking in the sight of you choking on his cock with as little shame as you had dignity. “Good girl,” he muttered, more to himself than to you. “Are you gonna start moving, or does the spoiled princess need a little help?”

‘Help’ meant him holding your head in-place while he fucked your skull. Resisting the urge to shake your head, you bobbed shallowly, the veined underside of his cock gliding over your tongue as a knot of ache formed in either corner of your jaw, the strain already too painful to ignore. You could taste his arousal in the back of your throat, feel him throbbing against the hollows of your cheeks, but you forced yourself to dip your head lower, to take him deeper, to at least attempt to match the stuttering pace of your hand with that of your mouth. It wasn’t much, but it was enough to keep him distracted. His hand drifted from the back of your head to the nape of your neck, his thumb pushing rough patterns into your skin. “Still can’t believe I get to keep such a sweet thing all to myself.” It was almost cruel, how composed he sounded while saliva dripped from the corner of your mouth. “It would’ve been a shame if I’d fucked up and done something really mean, that first day. I don’t think I would’ve gone through with it, though. As soon as I got a good look, all I wanted was to see what that pretty mouth looked like wrapped around my cock.”

His breath hitched, his hips bucked, and you audibly gagged as the blunt head of his cock slammed into the back of your throat. You jerked away on reflex, but Sukuna didn’t let you go far. His hand wrapped around your neck as he rolled his hips, forcing another inch of his cock down your throat, then another, until it was all you could do to blink away the tears quickly forming in your eyes. Your hand fell away from his shaft to scramble and claw at his thighs, but if Sukuna mourned the loss of contact, you couldn’t tell. The only thing you could make out was his cock pulsing against the convulsing walls of your throat and his voice, as distant as it was deafening. “Fuck,” he sighed, then again, “Fuck. Desperate little bitch. My desperate little bitch. Can’t go three fucking seconds without needing me to take care of you, isn’t that right?”

Your only response was a desperate, keening whine – mostly muffled by the twitching object lodged in your airway. Rather than a plea for mercy, Sukuna seemed to take it as confirmation, taking you by the back of your head and forcing you that much further, that much closer. “Fucking—Take it.”

He didn’t give you a chance to spit, let alone pull away. Your nose brushed against the defined muscle of his abdomen as you felt something bitter and searing flood down your throat. Calling it swallowing would’ve been too generous.

That night, you vomited twice before letting Sukuna carry you to bed. Despite everything, you would dream only of the taste of fresh blood and burnt meat.

~

Despite everything, you only saw the kitchen of Sukuna’s restaurant once. He expected you at your usual table almost every day, invited you out for drinks at one of his classy, dimly lit lounges (a severe juxtaposition to his own hole-in-the-wall establishment) nearly as often as that, but he only let you see his back of house once, late at night, hours after closing.

Coincidentally, that was also the night he took you away.

Admittedly, it was difficult to remember why you’d been called back to the kitchen. That section of your day was blurry, distant, fuzzy around the edges from the moment you stepped into his shop to the second you woke up alone in a bed you didn’t recognize, the smell of sweat and cigarette smoke thick in the air.  Still, you could remember the feeling of chilled titanium pressing into your back, the heat of Sukuna’s body above you, what he’d looked like as you stared up at him from below. You remembered thinking, possibly for the first time, that you hated everything about him, from his inflated ego to his resonating voice to his awful, conniving smirk, and realizing that you’d never be able to leave him.

You also remembered the white-haired server being there – standing in the doorway, her expression one of pleasant indifference as she explained something grotesque and nonsensical to Sukuna, either oblivious to or uncaring of how deeply he was buried inside of you. You watched her lips move, but only a few words broke through the haze – disposal and witness, nothing that made any sense. You remembered noticing how pretty she was, and thinking that it was a shame she wasn’t the owner, rather than Sukuna.

You could remember asking for something, and Sukuna humming in response before something was shoved past your lips – heady and thick and raw. You tasted blood on your lips, felt yourself choke, and then, everything was dark.

~

“Oh, sweetheart.”

You should’ve known he’d gotten home. You’d been able to make out the sound of his footsteps through the floor above, been able to feel the light spill onto your back as the basement door and its useless, mangled knob were pushed open, but it wasn’t until you heard his voice that you could bring yourself to care. Even then, your hold on the raw chunk of half-frozen meat only tightened, nails digging into the ruddy, bleeding tissue. As much as you didn’t want to put a name to it, it would’ve been impossible to deny what it was – to ignore what you’d seen inside of the meat locker, to pretend you hadn’t recognized the disassembled bodies hanging on rusted-over hooks, to act like you could mistake the taste still heavy on your tongue for that of pig, or cow, or some other, inferior animal. It would’ve been useless, even if the temptation was still there. It would’ve been futile.

Almost as futile as trying to deny that it was the best fucking thing you’d ever choked down.

You heard the tell-tale creak of Sukuna starting to descend the staircase, and before you could stop yourself, dug your teeth into the brunt of the sinew, tearing off the largest mouthful you were capable of and swallowing it whole. You dipped your head for another bite, but it was too late – Sukuna was already behind you, his hand already wrapped around the collar of your shirt, your body already being jerked back and away from your hard-earned prize. You tried to dig your nails into the thick of the fat, to stuff the last of it past your lips, but with an airy chuckle and a quirk of his wrist, the cut was torn away and discarded just as thoughtlessly.

For the first time, you snapped towards Sukuna, your teeth bared and your eyes narrowed into something furious, something hostile. “Why would you—” And then, letting out a miserable sob and turning away from him, “I—I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to break anything, but I couldn’t stop thinking about it, and then—”

“I get it, baby. You aren’t in trouble.”

“And then I found something heavy enough to break the knob and I couldn’t stop thinking about—” You cut yourself off suddenly, letting out a sharp exhale. “…I’m not?”

“No, princess, you’re not.” If you hadn’t known better, you might’ve mistaken his tone for something gentle. His gaze fell to your chest, and for the first time, you noticed the blood dripping down your chin, staining the fabric of your top. “We should get you cleaned up, though. You’ll only feel shittier when it dries.”

You didn’t protest as he pulled you into his arms and carried you upstairs, out of the basement, away from the meat locker. You didn’t say anything as he set you on his bed, your back leaning against the headboard, and eased your top over your head, replacing it with one of his own, and produced a damp cloth from the nearest bathroom. Gingerly, he cleaned the gore off your face, never rushing through a stroke or applying more pressure than was absolutely necessary, stopping often to kiss your forehead or the bridge of your nose. You were sniffling by the time he finished, crying by the time he left the room, and sobbing when he came back – a bowl in hand with a pair of chopsticks laid across its rim.

Its contents were predictable: meat, pan-grilled in thin slices and, as far as you could tell, left unseasoned. “I’ll make some rice when you’re done,” Sukuna went on, as you struggled with the chopsticks. “To balance it out. You’ll need something to take the edge off.”

You nodded vacantly, accepting the bowl greedily despite your shaking hands. It was better raw – the flavor richer, the taste fresher – but you weren’t in a place to complain, not when it was so much easier when you didn’t have to gnaw and tear like some wild, starving animal. Not that you weren’t eating like one – keeping the rim of the bowl pressed into your chin, never letting more than a second lapse between one mouthful and the next. You only paused when you felt the mattress dip, noticed Sukuna positioning himself between your legs, and but he only smiled, only rested a hand on your knee. “Keep going,” he urged. “It’d be a waste to let it get cold, right?”

“I don’t like this.” Your voice was still unsteady, prone to cracking, but it was true. You didn’t want him to pretend to be nice. “I’ve never really liked you. I’d leave, if I could. There hasn’t been a moment since you kidnapped me that I haven’t spent fantasizing about getting out and fixing what you’ve done to me.”

“You’re just saying that to hurt my feelings, doll.” You were, but it wasn’t. Slowly, he lowered himself onto his chest, one hand spreading your thighs apart while the other toyed lazily with the hem of your shorts. You felt him lean against your thigh, pressing an open-mouthed kiss into the tender flesh. You’d gained weight during your time with him – not much, just a few pounds, a little plush to soften your harsher edges. You weren’t sure whether or not to care. “I’m just proud, that’s all. Don’t you want me to be proud of you?”

You didn’t want anything from him. Your appetite gone, you placed the bowl haphazardly on the bedside table, watching through clouded eyes as Sukuna removed your shorts entirely, taking agonizing seconds to guide them down your legs before letting them drop to the floor below. You expected your panties to follow, but Sukuna only settled into place, dragging the pad of his thumb over the length of your slit, pausing to draw slow, idle circles into your clit through the silken fabric. It went without saying that he picked out your clothes, even if he rarely had the patience to tell you exactly what to wear. You were allowed to choose your outfit day-to-day, but it didn’t matter. It couldn’t, not when your entire closet was suited to his tastes.

His hands curled around your thighs. You felt his tongue before you realized what he was doing – wet and warm and thick, his saliva soaking through the thin material and infecting you, spoiling you. You tried to ignore it, to remind yourself that you should be used to this, used to him, but this just… wasn’t what you were used to. Normally, you could expect him to be cruel, degrading, impulsive, but tonight, he seemed more than happy to bury his face between your thighs and play lover – albeit, a lover who still must’ve known he was unwanted. A lover who must’ve known you would’ve preferred a captor.

Your panties were dragged to the side, his tongue immediately finding your cunt. He took his time, laving over your entrance, coaxing reactions out of you despite your best attempts to dig your teeth into your tongue and hold back. He knew too much about you. He’d had too much time to learn. Heat pooled in your core, leaking out through your pussy, and Sukuna lapped it up like a fine wine – his thumb finding your clit as his tongue traced patterns into your cunt, and—

And oh, god, you were crying again, tears dripping down your cheeks despite your pitiful attempts to brush them away. Sukuna’s eyes flickered up to meet yours, and you felt him smile against the inside of your thigh, his tongue dipping shallowly into your cunt once, twice before he pulled away, straightening his back. His hand quickly replaced his mouth, two thick fingers thrusting into pussy with a humiliating sort of ease, spreading apart and curling against you and filling his bedroom with those embarrassing, wet, vile noises you’d never been able to stand. He didn’t seem to mind, holding your gaze as he spoke. “When did you put it together?”

“I—I don’t know what you’re—”

“Don’t play dumb.” And then, as his thumb traced harsh circles into your clit, “You knew what you were looking for. What gave it away? The texture? The smell?”

Your mouth opened, but you didn’t answer, a fractured moan falling from your lips in the place of anything more intelligent. Sukuna hummed, adding a third digit, and you spilled open in an instant. “Your restaurant,” you managed, the words rushed and sloppy. “No matter what I ordered, the meat would always taste the same. At first, I—I thought you were just being cheap, but then I noticed how often your regulars would just suddenly stop coming in, and—”

You were cut off by your own miserable, keening whine; his calloused fingers catching on something tender and vulnerable inside of you and taking advantage of it. “And you kept coming in,” he finished, hushing your whimpering. “Loyal little brat. Uraume wanted to get rid of you, but I knew I was right to take you in.”

You didn’t respond. You couldn’t. You were too busy moving your hips against his hand, seeking out the pleasure that your body craved and your mind rejected. Sukuna took pity on you, cooing as he wrapped an arm around your waist and pulled you into his lap, supporting you as the movements of his hand turned short, erratic, as he edged you closer and closer and closer to your climax. You came undone with a sob, burying your face in his chest, and Sukuna was kind enough to nurse you through it, to hold you against him as your body crumpled and your poor, beaten soul seemed to give out entirely.

Eventually, he broke the silence. “I think,” he said, bowing his head and running his tongue over your cheek. “It’s time for you to learn to cook.”

You couldn’t think, but you didn’t have to. There was only one thing you ever would’ve said.

“I’d like that.”

Hi there 👋,

My name is Mohammad, and I’m reaching out in a moment of desperate need. I’m a father of three young children living in Gaza, and we are caught in the midst of a catastrophic war. Our home is no longer a safe haven, and the future here seems increasingly uncertain. 💔

I’ve launched a fundraising campaign with the goal of raising $40,000 to relocate my family to a safer place where my children can grow up in peace and have a chance at a brighter future. 🕊️🇵🇸

Unfortunately, my previous fundraising efforts were abruptly halted when my account was terminated without explanation. However, I remain determined to keep fighting for my family’s safety and well-being. 🫶

If you could take a moment to read our story, consider donating, or simply share our campaign with others, it would make an incredible difference. Every act of kindness, no matter how small, brings us one step closer to safety and a new beginning. 🙏

Thank you for your time, compassion, and support. ❤

https://gofund.me/fd1faea2 🔗

gofundme.com

Donate to Help Mohammed's Family From Gaza Rebuild Their Lives, organized by Mohammed Abu Swierh

My name is Mohammad Salem Abu Swierh, a husband and father of… Mohammed Abu Swierh needs your support for Help Mohammed's Family From Gaza R

unfortunately i don’t have the means to donate but i can definitely reblog! anyone who can donate should and if not then please share!

Cool Girl

Ghoap x female reader / 18+ / previous

The sunrise stabs under your eyelids with malicious intent.

You don’t have much of a hangover, but your face is still puffy, under eyes swollen. You’ve been crying all night, and it’s painfully obvious.

Not to mention the lack of sleep. The vomit induced by your overwhelming anxiety, the bile still scorching your throat. You haven’t slept more than an hour. You look like the walking dead.

You tried to have a serious talk with yourself around two o’clock in the morning. You told- no you promised- yourself you’d leave well enough alone. You’d put them out of your mind. You’d move on.

They never wanted you. So why are you so insulted that they did exactly what they said they would? You weren’t theirs. You’d never be theirs.

Good enough to keep in bed. Good enough to keep out of sight. But not someone they’d consider theirs.

You’re no one’s. You’re just… yours.

Which is fine. It’s more than fine. You’re cool. You don’t need them, or anyone.

Your hand won’t stop shaking though. It shakes when you turn on the water for the shower, shakes as you try to shave. It shakes through your first cup of tea and then your second, shakes when you curl up the couch and huddle under your blankets, staring blankly at reruns of some laugh tracked sitcom. It’s because you haven’t slept or you’re hungover or something-

And it only stops when your doorbell rings.

You slam your eyes shut. You’re not expecting anyone, and that alone makes you feel like there’s probably someone on the other side of the door that you decidedly do not want to see.

The glance through your peephole confirms your suspicions.

It’s Johnny. He’s standing squarely in front of your door, bouquet of flowers in his hand.

Your head starts to pound, and he knocks on the door.

“I know ye’re home, bonnie. I saw yer car in the garage.” You’re frozen on the other side, separated by a piece of metal and wood that suddenly feels less substantial than it ever has before.

When the lock doesn’t click, he knocks again. “‘m not leavin’ until I see ye.” You groan.

“Stalking me now?” You spit when you open the door and he grins sheepishly.

“Naw...” He doesn’t elaborate and you stand in the frame of the door, trying to block him from peering over you- though it’s no use. You watch his critical gaze take inventory of what he can in your flat, and then he returns his attention to you, holding out the flowers.

They’re tulips. Maybe twenty, twenty five stems, all in a spectacle of color. They’re beautiful, and your favorite.

It surprises you. That they even know that about you. That they would remember a comment you must have made in passing.

It gives you pause. It’s confusing.

“Got these for ye.” He’s… such a boy. A grown man, a decorated military man, a strong man but still… such a boy. He’s never looked more like a boy than he does now, eyes wide and nervous, shifting his weight from leg to leg. He blinks, eyelashes feathery and dark, and you’re left to wonder if he gets it from his mom or his dad. Does he have sisters? Brothers? Nieces or nephews? You ached for those pieces of them, before.

Now, the lingering questions fill you with embarrassment.

He steps forward, and you shrink back. His gaze flickers, and then clears, holding the overflowing bundle of colors towards you.

“Thanks.” You say stiffly, careful to avoid his fingers when you pull it free.

“Can I come in?”

“I don’t think that’s a good idea.” He chews on his lip.

“Ye look tired, love. Did ye get any sleep?” You sniff, hand resting on your hip.

“I’m fine.”

“Ye dinnae look fine.”

“Why are you here?” You’re cracking with exasperation, legs going weak. You’re not strong enough to stand here and survive an onslaught.

“Need to talk with ye, like we said last night.”

“There’s nothing to talk about, like I said last night.” You parrot with a irritated exhale.

“Ye know that’s jus’ not true. We need to talk about what ye saw, what ye think ye saw-“

“What did I see? Since apparently you know what I’m thinking now.” You’re too tired for this. You don’t want to do this. You want to crawl back into bed and hide under your blankets.

“Ye think ye saw us with another woman, or on a date, but-“

“I saw your hands on another woman. I saw her smiling at you like-“ you shake your head. “It doesn’t matter what I saw,” he swallows, mouth pressing into an uncomfortable line, “I always knew this wasn’t real, that it didn’t mean anything but-“

“Ye agreed. Ye always said ye didnae want a relationship.” He reminds you sharply, and you nearly swallow your tongue.

“Yeah, I didn’t, so.” The lie is foul on your tongue, rancid and spoiled, but you give it life regardless. Fuck them. You’re fine.

“But yer mad ye saw us with another woman.” He raises an eyebrow, and you never wanted to punch someone so badly.

But instead of a rising tide of anger, you get an overwhelming wave of despair, and tears prick at the corner of your eyes.

“Ah, no, love. Please, please dinnae cry. ‘m sorry, this is such a mess. We never meant for any of this.” Your hand starts shaking again, trembling against the plastic wrapped around the stems, and Johnny’s expression changes from sad to worried. “What’s this?” He tries to reach, fingers grazing the back of your arm.

“N-nothing, I’m just tired.”

“Love-“

“Just… go away.” Your patience snaps, shatters, and his face falls. It almost makes your feel bad.

Almost.